THE  DOMINANT  MALE 

ESSAYS  AND  PLAYS 


ARNOLD  DALY 


ID 


d  I  f\ 

IDl 

A 


THE 
DOMINANT   MALE 


THE 

DOMINANT    MALE 

AND  PLATS 


BY 

ARNOLD  DALY 


NEW   YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


CONTENTS 

THE  DOMINANT  MALE,  11 

PLAYING  GOLF,  32 

FATHER  AND  SON,  41 

JAMES  STEPHENS  —  AN  APPRECIATION,  50 

DEMOCRACY'S  KING,   56 

WHY  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS  COULD  ONLY  HAVE  BEEN 

WRITTEN  BY  AN  ACTOR,  71 
BETWEEN  OURSELVES,  83 
ARTISTIC  REASONING,  92 
GOSSIP,  TOO 
LETTERS  —  FROM  AND  To  THE  AUTHOR,  102 


Thanks  are  due  to  "Harper's  Bazar" 
and  "Vanity  Fair"  for  permission  to 
reprint  "Between  Ourselves"  from 
"Harper's  Bazar,"  and  "James  Ste 
phens — An  Appreciation"  and  "Why 
Shakespeare's  Plays  Could  Only  Have 
Been  Written  by  an  Actor"  from 
"Vanity  Fair." 


THE 
DOMINANT  MALE 

A  Comment  on  Suffrage 
In  One  Act 


THE  DOMINANT  MALE 

Cast 

A    MAN  A    WOMAN  A   WAITER 

SCENE  I 

SCENE:  A  lonely  hut  on  a  mountain  side 
in  America. 

The  play  opens  with  the  man  crouching  over 
a  miserable  fire  in  a  very  small  and  decidedly 
ill-kept  room.  A  gun  is  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
and  a  belt  containing  a  revolver  lies  thrown  up 
on  the  table.  One  or  two  wild  skins  are  on  the 
floor  and  a  couple  of  smaller  ones  tacked  on  the 
walls.  A  half  dozen  very  frayed  books  are 
placed  in  a  pathetic  looking  rack  on  the  wall. 
There  is  a  door  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner  of 
the  room  and  below  the  door  is  a  small  window 
which  is  rather  heavily  blurred  with  snow. 
After  the  curtain  rises  the  man  starts  as  though 
he  had  heard  an  unusual  sound.  As  he  listens 
a  low  moaning  is  heard  and  as  he  turns  up  the 
room  the  moaning  increases  and  something  is 
heard  falling  heavily  against  the  door.  He 
strides  towards  it  and  pulls  it  quickly  open. 


THE  DOMINANT  MALE 

Cast 

A    MAN  A    WOMAN  A   WAITER 

SCENE  I 

SCENE:  A  lonely  hut  on  a  mountain  side 
in  America. 

The  play  opens  with  the  man  crouching  over 
a  miserable  fire  in  a  very  small  and  decidedly 
ill-kept  room.  A  gun  is  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
and  a  belt  containing  a  revolver  lies  thrown  up 
on  the  table.  One  or  two  wild  skins  are  on  the 
floor  and  a  couple  of  smaller  ones  tacked  on  the 
walls.  A  half  dozen  very  frayed  books  are 
placed  in  a  pathetic  looking  rack  on  the  wall. 
There  is  a  door  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner  of 
the  room  and  below  the  door  is  a  small  window 
which  is  rather  heavily  blurred  with  snow. 
After  the  curtain  rises  the  man  starts  as  though 
he  had  heard  an  unusual  sound.  As  he  listens 
a  low  moaning  is  heard  and  as  he  turns  up  the 
room  the  moaning  increases  and  something  is 
heard  falling  heavily  against  the  door.  He 
strides  towards  it  and  pulls  it  quickly  open. 


Then  out  of  the  night,  ushered  in  with  a  fanfare 
of  wailing  snow  flakes,  the  body  of  a  woman 
tumbles  on  the  floor.  The  wind,  which  had  been 
howling  mournfully,  now  rises  on  a  keen  note 
as  though  angry  with  defeat.  The  man  quickly 
picks  her  up,  closes  the  door,  then  carries  her 
to  the  fire  and  puts  her  in  the  chair  he  had  been 
occupying,  which,  by  the  way,  is  the  one  com 
fortable  article  of  furniture  in  the  room.  He 
then  takes  a  glass  and  bottle  from  the  cupboard, 
pours  out  a  small  drink  and  rubbing  her  hands 
gently  at  the  same  time  he  says: 

THE    MAN 

That's  the  idea,  don't  try  for  a  minute, 
take  your  time. 

\_Giving  her  drinH\ 

Only,  after  you're  rested  I'd  be  curious  to 
know  what  you're  doing  roaming  around  on 
the  top  of  Cato's  Ridge  at  eleven  o'clock  at 
night.  It's  not  very  strange  of  course,  not 
much  stranger  than  seeing  Saint  Peter  buy 
ing  bonnets  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  or  the 
Devil  swinging  incense  on  a  Saint's  Day. 
I've  heard  of  odd  things  happening,  sister, 
but  you've  rather  pulled  the  big  surprise. 
It's  even  funnier  than  my  finding  gold  and 
I've  been  looking  for  that  for  years.  What's 
the  idea? 


[The  girl  has  recovered  enough  to  smile  at  his 
attempts  to  cheer  her} 

THE    GIRL 

Tisn't  quite  the  correct  hour  for  even  an 
informal  call,  is  it? 

THE  MAN  \_smiling] 

Not  exactly.  However,  in  these  parts 
we're  just  a  trifle  —  informal  —  sorry  I  can't 
offer  you  a  cigarette  —  I've  only  got  —  [In 
dicates  pipe}. 

THE    GIRL   \_COolly~] 

Thanks,  I  have  some. 

[Takes  cigarette  case  from  pocket.  He  holds 
match  to  light  her  cigarette  during  follow 
ing  speech~] 

THE    MAN 

Judging  by  your  dress  the  idea  seems  to  be 
you've  been  riding. 

THE  GIRL  [grimly'] 
A  little  - 

THE    MAN 

It's  a  pretty  dress  —  not  quite  the  sort  they 
wear  around  here  though.  The  last  time  I 
saw  a  costume  like  that  was  —  but  that's 
not  the  point.  I'm  curious  to  know  how  and 


why  you  drop  from  the  clouds,  out  of  the 
storm,  into  the  hut  of  a  lonely  disappointed, 
miserable,  would-be  miner  like  myself. 

THE    GIRL 

It's  really  much  simpler  than  it  appears 
—  do  you  know  the  Elkin  ranch  ? 

THE    MAN 

In  the  Samoa  Valley  —  of  course. 

THE    GIRL 

Well,  my  brother  and  I  are  visiting  them 
-  Sally  Elkins  was  my  room-mate  at  school. 
This  morning  Wally  and  I  -  -  Wally  is  my 
brother,  you  know  —  well,  we  started  out 
for  a  ride  and  we  stopped  at  such  a  quaint 
old  place  for  lunch  —  some  Mexican  name 
I've  forgotten.  Anyhow  after  lunch  we 
thought  we  could  ride  on  a  little  further  and 
make  a  detour,  instead  of  riding  back  over 
the  same  road --the  old  Mexican  told  us 
that  we  could.  So  off  we  started  — we  took 
the  first  turning  to  the  right  -  -  I  remember 
distinctly  that  was  what  he  told  us  to  do, 
and  then  we  rode  on  and  on.  It  was  very 
beautiful  —  so  very  beautiful  and  calm  — 
with  such  a  strange  sense  of  grandeur,  that 
we  felt  that  it  didn't  matter  if  we  never 
turned  back  —  something  seemed  to  woo  us 


on  —  a  strange  elusive  silent  appeal  —  you 
know  what  I  mean  —  you  see,  tl've  only 
ridden  in  the  East  before. 

THE    MAN 

I  understand. 

THE    GIRL 

Finally  we  came  to  where  two  roads  forked 
—  Wally  thought  that  I  had  better  wait 
while  he  went  forward  and  investigated. 
Well,  there  I  waited,  and  waited,  and  waited. 
Finally  my  patience  gave  out  and  I  followed 
down  the  road  he  had  taken  —  only  to  dis 
cover  after  riding  about  half  a  mile  that  I 
was  in  a  quandary  again.  Once  more  two 
roads  faced  me.  In  desperation  I  chose  the 
one  to  the  left  this  time  and  rode  on  calling 
for  Wally,  but  it  must  have  been  the  wrong 
trail.  Then  the  twilight  fell  and  with  it 
came  the  snow  —  quietly  at  first  —  it  fell  so 
softly,  in  great  flakes.  It  seemed  as  though 
God  was  opening  his  hand  and  dropping  an 
anodyne  to  send  a  restless  stupid  world  to 
sleep.  Before  me  through  the  white  snow 
the  mountains  appeared  like  a  huge  purple 
coverlet.  Around  me  the  red  woods  seemed 
to  stand  like  great  friendly  sentinels,  and  my 
spirit  whispered  —  Rest,  Rest,  Rest,  Nature 
will  cover  and  guard  you,  so  potent  was  the 

ds  3 


charm  that  I  had  to  make  an  effort  to  con 
tinue.  A  great  sob  rose  in  my  throat  and  I 
realized  that  the  beauty  of  the  night  was 
choking  me.  Then  I  cried  with  the  joy  of  it 
all.  I  didn't  care  where  I  was  or  what  hap 
pened  to  me,  and  so  I  rode  on.  The  snow 
fell  more  rapidly  now  —  as  it  grew  darker 
the  wind  began  to  moan  around  me  and  I 
felt  afraid.  I  realized  the  horse  was  climb 
ing  the  mountain  and  wondered  where  he 
was  taking  me.  On  and  on  and  on  he  went 
until  it  seemed  that  I  had  ridden  since  the 
beginning  of  time.  Now  he  stumbled  and  I 
was  nearly  thrown  —  no,  he's  up  again  —  a 
branch  of  a  tree  sweeps  my  hat  off  and  I 
bend  lower  in  the  saddle  realizing  that  if  I 
fall  it  may  mean  a  thousand  feet.  Finally 
before  me  I  saw  a  light  and  urged  the  horse 
forward.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  tell  you  what 
that  light  meant  to  me!  I  couldn't  wait  —  I 
slipped  from  the  saddle  and  ran  forward. 
Then,  just  as  I  reached  the  door,  things 
seemed  to  turn  around  and  —  and  that's  all 
I  remember. 

THE  MAN 

[Moving  to  the  window~\ 
You've  had  a  trying  time. 
[Peering  out  the  window^ 


The  horse  is  all  right  —  he's  found  his  way 
to  the  shed.  I'll  go  out  presently  and  un 
saddle  him. 

THE  GIRL  [starting  up] 
Oh,  you  mustn't  do  that  —  After  he's  had 
a  little  rest  I  must  start  back.     Wally   will 
be  worried  to  death. 

THE   MAN 

Start  back?  Have  you  any  idea  how  far 
it  is  to  the  Elkins  ranch? 

THE    GIRL 

I'm  afraid  not. 

THE  MAN  [_smiling] 

It's  fifty  miles.  You  could  make  it  in  a 
day  in  fine  weather.  Of  course  with  this 
storm  its  impossible. 

THE  GIRL  [_gasping~] 
Impossible ! 

THE    MAN 

Surely. 

\_Again  looks  out  window^ 

If  I'm  any  judge  you'll  be  lucky  if  you  get 
out  of  here  in  three  days,  and  if  she  gets  any 
worse,  why  you  may  be  held  up  for  two  weeks 
—  maybe  a  month. 


THE  GIRL  [horrified'] 
You're  joking. 

THE   MAN 

No,  there's  nothing  very  funny  about  one 
of  these  storms. 

THE    GIRL 

But  I  can't  live  here  for  three  days  —  why 
how  —  how  — 

THE    MAN 

I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  to  do.  I'll 
make  you  as  comfortable  as  I  can. 

THE    GIRL 

But  —  but  —  where  will  you  sleep? 

THE    MAN 

I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  bunk  here  also, 
unless  of  course  you  want  me  to  sleep  in  the 
snow. 

THE  GIRL  \_confuscdly~] 

No,  no,  of  course  not  —  only  —  well,  dear 
me,  I  don't  know  what  to  say. 

THE   MAN 

Catastrophes  do  destroy  conventions,  don't 
they  ? 

THE    GIRL 

What  will  people  think? 


THE  MAN  [laughing] 

Fear  of  our  neighbor's  opinion,  eh?  The 
ruler  of  the  world. 

THE    GIRL 

What  is? 

THE    MAN 

The  emotion  that  governs  you  now, — 
Fear  —  it  comes  first  —  the  sentimentalist 
would  tell  you  that  love  is  all  —  the  Finan 
cier,  Ambition  —  the  soldier,  duty  and  the 
world  will  cry  in  unison  —  Honor  —  but  they 
are  all  empty  words  in  comparison  with  fear. 
Fear  of  our  neighbor's  opinion  —  that's  what 
governs  us  all  in  the  end. 

THE    GIRL 

It  sounds  very  cynical. 

THE   MAN 

Does  it?  That's  strange  then,  from  an 
optimist.  For  surely  a  man  is  an  optimist 
who  spends  four  years  in  these  dreary  moun 
tains  in  the  silly  pursuit  of  gold  —  it  wasn't 
so  hard  at  first ;  I  had  a  partner  for  two 
years,  but  sense  came  to  his  rescue  and  he 
gave  it  up.  I  persisted  —  there's  gold  here 
and  I'll  find  it  I  said  —  and  I  won't  leave 
these  cursed  mountains  until  I  do. 


[_He  crosses  and  fills  bis  pipe,  then  sits  near 
girl  on  a  low  stool~] 

THE    GIRL 

Why  do  you  curse  the  mountains  —  they 
are  beautiful. 

THE   MAN 

That's  what  every  tourist  thinks  —  and  of 
course  they  are  for  a  while  —  a  week  or  two 
—  even  a  month,  but  live  in  them  always  — 
as  I  have  —  for  four  years,  hemmed  in  often 
by  the  storm  as  we  are  now,  caught  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap  with  nothing  but  that  dreary 
white  wall  outside  staring  one  in  the  face  — 
staring  so  contemptuously  —  finally  hunger 
drives  you  forth  and  death  bids  you  welcome 
if  you  miss  your  footing  by  half  an  inch  and 
slip  in  a  friendly  looking  crevice,  or  if  its 
fine  the  sun  will  burn  you  mercilessly  in  the 
day  and  at  night  the  cold  will  seek  your  very 
heart. 

[Now  bis  voice  sinks  to  a  whisper  as  tho  he 
were  confessing  something] 

But  worst  of  all  constantly  they  will  re 
mind  you  of  your  own  insignificance,  each 
day  making  you  feel  smaller  —  for  each  day 
they  appear  greater  —  so  silent  —  so  mas 
sive  —  so  impenetrable  —  so  constant  and 
always  the  same  with  huge  stone  eyes  and 


cold  glistening  face  staring  at  the  sun  defi 
antly.  Live  here  if  you  would  know  Dante's 
inferno. 

THE    GIRL 

[Looking  at  him  sharply,  speaks  quietly~\ 
You  need  a  change  —  new  surroundings  — 
why  don't  you  go  East? 

THE  MAN  \_savagely~\ 

I  came  for  gold  and  I'll  not  leave  without 
it  —  it's  here  and  I'll  find  it.  If  I  fail,  the 
buzzards  can  croak  their  triumph  —  they  may 
even  if  I  win,  for  the  chase  has  made  me  weary 
and  I  fear  that  my  palate  has  become  stale 
and  alas,  I  may  find  the  gold  indigestible. 

\_Then,  with  a  sudden  change ,  lashing  himself 
into  a  jury  with  the  memory  of  what  he  has 
suffered~\ 

If  you  only  knew  what  it  means  to  be  alone 
for  two  years  in  this  desolate  hell,  —  I've 
read  those  books  pointing  to  loookshelves~\ 
until  I've  worn  them  out.  I  could  almost 
quote  them  word  for  word  —  sometimes  I'd 
attempt  to  send  for  more,  but  the  silence  had 
sung  a  drooning  song  in  my  ears  that  made 
all  mental  effort  an  apathetic  useless  gesture 
—  the  mountains  each  day  seemed  to  press 
closer  around  me  until  I  felt  that  if  I  reached 
into  my  body  and  dragged  out  my  heart  I'd 

n  21 3 


grasp  only  a  dried  withered  husk  —  the  world 
seemed  far  away.  I  lived  in  an  empty  mean 
ingless  space  —  nothing  was  real  - 

[lie  stops  —  a  thought  has  struck  him  —  he 
looks  at  her  keenly — then  laughs  ironically] 

THE    GIRL 

What's  that  for? 

THE    MAN 

It's  just  struck  me  that  if  you  hadn't  taken 
the  wrong  trail,  I'd  still  be  mooning  over 
my  loneliness  —  funny  thing  accident  —  some 
people  call  it  fate;  after  all,  you  are  real 
-wonderfully  real  and  you've  got  to  stay 
here  until  the  storm  clears  —  yes,  even  after 
—  until  the  trail  is  safe  — 

\_A  thought  strikes  him  —  be  speaks  slowly 
now] 

And  then  you'll  leave  —  go  back  —  the 
loneliness  will  come  again  —  unless  — 

THE    GIRL 

Unless  what? 

THE    MAN 

Unless  I  keep  you  here. 

THE    GIRL 

You're  joking. 


THE  MAN  [grimly'] 
I'm  not. 

THE    GIRL   [laughs'] 

This  isn't  melodrama  —  of  course,  with  the 
storm  and  the  hut  on  the  mountain  side  I 
know  it  looks  like  it  —  but  it  isn't  —  it's  life 

—  it's  real  —  you've  been  very  kind  —  after 
all,  you're  a  gentleman,  not  a  border  ruffian. 

THE    MAN 

I  wonder  if  there  is  any  difference  between 
the  two  —  In  certain  situations  I  fancy  not 

—  as   you    say,    it's   life  —  it's   real.  —  Well, 
here   we    are  —  we   two  —  you,    a   beautiful 
girl  —  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  beautiful 
you  are  sitting  there  —  and  I  a  visionary  —  a 
dealer  in  dreams  —  The  gold  up  to  now  has 
been  a  phantom — to  date  my  life  is  a  failure. 

—  I  would  not  count  it  so  if  I  held  you  in 
my  arms  —  think  of  it  —  why  should  I  let 
you  go  —  the  one  real,  beautiful  thing  I've 
known  ? 

THE  GIRL  [indignantly"] 
Why  — 

THE    MAN 

Oh,  I  know  what  you  would  say  —  your 
brother  will  eventually  find  us  and  shoot 
me  —  perhaps  —  that  is  if  I  don't  shoot  first 


-  or  perhaps  you  think  you  could  appeal  to 
my  sense  of  pity  —  what  a  fool  I'd  be  — 
cheat  myself  —  forego  a  great  reality  for  an 
attitude  —  No,  I've  made  up  my  mind  — 
I'll  live  this  night  and  perhaps  —  who  knows 
—  tomorrow  I  may  see  the  mountains  —  as 
you  do  —  beautiful  - 

\Jie  rises  —  she  starts  to  her  feet  terror- 
stricken  —  her  eyes  staring  —  he  advances 
toward  her  slowly  as 


THE    CURTAIN    DESCENDS 


[243 


SCENE  II 

SCENE:  The  exterior  of  a  hotel  at  a  French 
watering  resort  —  Twenty-three  years  later. 

As  the  curtain  rises  we  discover  the  heroine 
of  the  first  scene  sitting  at  the  left  side  of  a 
table  placed  a  little  to  the  left  center  of  stage  — 
the  table  is  set  for  two  —  an  attentive  waiter 
stands  back  of  the  table  awaiting  Madame9 s 
commands  —  she  is  busily  reading  letters  —  a 
cablegram  lies  amongst  the  letters  —  she  has 
read  —  she  is  still  a  good-looking  woman  — 
stout  now  and  comfortable  looking,  though  a 
trifle  formidable  —  with  a  decidedly  command 
ing  air  —  glasses  add  the  glacial  touch  that 
make  her  first  cousin  to  a  bank  President. 
The  waiter  is  the  typical  well  bred  sort  one  finds 
in  a  first  class  French  resort  —  the  back  drop 
showing  the  country  side  is  sufficient  excuse 
for  any  tourist. 

THE    WAITER 

I  placed  Madame's  table  in  this  secluded 
corner  so  that  Monsieur  would  not  be  dis 
turbed  —  yesterday  I  noticed  that  the  other 
guests  stared  so  when  you  had  dejeuner  on 
the  terrace.  Monsieur  was  annoyed,  but 
he  must  forgive  —  their  curiosity  is  natural 


-  ioo  million  —  Mon   Dieu!  —  Madame,   is 
it  possible? 

SHE  [reading  letter] 
I  daresay  I  never  counted  it. 

WAITER 

And  to  get  it  all  out  of  the  ground  —  a  gold 
mine  —  it's  miraculous  - 

SHE 

A  gold  mine  gives  out  finally  —  your  min 
eral  springs  never  do  —  I'd  rather  own  — 
those. 

WAITER 
Madame  is  pleased  to  joke  — 


SHE 

I  never  joke  —  only  common  people  do  — 
>u  remember  your  orders  - 


WAITER 

Oui  —  Oui  —  Madame  —  Monsieur  is  not 
to  have  any  coffee  —  nothing  but  the  slice 
of  cold  ham  —  a  glass  of  milk  and  dry  toast. 
It  shall  be  as  Madame  orders  —  you  may 
depend  upon  me  —  And  Monsieur  may  de 
pend  upon  the  Doctor  and  our  famous 
waters  —  He  will  soon  be  himself  again. 


SHE 

Let  us  hope  so. 

\_He  comes  from  the  entrance  to  the  hotel  which 
is  on  the  right  side  of  the  stage.  A  glance 
tells  us  that  here  we  have  one  who  has 
lived  not  wisely  but  too  well.  (The  waiter 
obsequiously  places  chair  for  him  and  then 
exits  into  hotel.)  Gout  has  laid  its  heavy 
hand  upon  him  —  he  looks  all  of  his  fifty -five 
years  and  a  trifle  more  —  a  practical  look 
ing  cane  supports  his  progress  toward  the 
table  —  his  right  foot  is  bandaged  and 
covered  with  a  comfortable  house  slipper  — 
as  he  advances  and  sits  right  of  table  SHE 
speaks~\ 

SHE 

There  is  a  telegram  from  Jack  —  he's 
motoring  from  Paris  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
us,  says  he  wants  to  help  us  celebrate  —  I 
suppose  you  know  what  tomorrow  is  — 

\_He  looks  up  inquiringly^ 

No,  of  course  you've  forgotten. 

\_He  looks  startled,  starts  to  speak  —  she 
continues^ 

Don't  tell  me  that  it's  Wednesday  —  I 
know  that  —  I  mean,  have  you  any  idea 
what  your  son  is  coming  to  celebrate? 
Naturally  not  —  well,  it's  the  twenty-third 


anniversary  of  our  marriage  --  I  don't  mean 
our  first  vulgar  marriage  in  that  common  hut 
—  the  very  memory  of  that  half  drunken 
traveling  parson  makes  me  faint  —  I  mean 
our  marriage  in  the  East  at  St.  Thomas'  — 
amongst  my  people  —  after  you  had  struck 
oil  —  as  you  termed  it  —  Oh !  the  memory  of 
that  first  hideous  ceremony;  sometimes  I 
wake  in  the  night  —  shaking  with  fear  think 
ing  that  some  day  Violet  or  Jack  will  dis 
cover  the  secret  of  that  first  loathsome  wed 
ding.  By  the  way,  there  is  a  letter  from 
Violet  —  she  asks  if  she  may  join  us  for  her 
holiday  —  she  complains  that  Vassar  is  so 
lonely  since  Diana  Van  Renselaer  left.  I 
think,  however,  that  she  had  better  spend 
her  summer  with  the  Draytons.  Young 
Frank  will  be  home  his  mother  writes  me  — 
and  I  think  they  had  better  see  something 
of  each  other  —  it  would  be  an  excellent 
match. 

\_The  waiter  returns  with  and  serves  petit 
dejeuner  of  thin  slice  of  ham  —  dry  toast 
and  glass  of  milk  and  immediately  retires 
upstage  within  call~\ 

[The  Man  looks  at  the  milk,  then  up  at  his 
mentor  as  a  stricken  deer  would  look  at  his 
executioner  —  She  glares  severely  and  con 
tinues  her  monologue^ 


SHE 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  remind 
you  that  you  are  under  no  circumstances  to 
ask  for  coffee.  The  doctor  says  that  if  you 
disobey  again  he  will  throw  up  the  case. 
Yesterday  he  saw  you  smoking  outside  the 
casino  —  you  know  its  bad  for  you  —  besides 
which  it's  a  filthy  habit  —  what  you  can  see 
in  it  is  beyond  me.  I  need  hardly  tell  you 
that  its  thoroughly  absurd,  even  childish  to 
come  here,  burying  me  in  this  outlandish 
place  for  three  weeks  unless  you  intend  to 
take  your  cure  seriously.  Henri  told  him 
that  yesterday  morning  you  insisted  on  ham 
and  eggs  —  ham  and  eggs  in  July  —  no 
wonder  you  are  ill,  but  there  —  why  talk 
sense  to  a  man  about  food  —  when  I  think 
of  what  you  ate  and  drank  in  all  these  years, 
I  wonder  that  you're  alive  at  all. 

\JIe  takes  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and 
starts  to  prop  it  against  the  toast  rack~\ 

How  often  must  I  tell  you  that  a  gentle 
man  does  not  read  his  newspaper  at  the 
breakfast  table  when  his  wife  is  present. 
Really  in  all  these  years  one  would  imagine 
that  you  might  have  overcome  your  mining 
camp  manners  and  don't  forget  your  mud 
bath  at  twelve,  and  your  massage  at  one. 

£29:1 


What   you   would    do   without    me    I    can't 

imagine  - 

\_She  goes  into  the  hotel -- be  stares  front  a 
moment  with  eyes  unseeing  —  then  wakes 
as  though  from  an  ugly  dream,  beckons 
the  waiter  to  him  —  the  waiter  hurries  — 
all  attention  —  he  whispers  to  the  waiter, 
who  raises  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
frightened  amazement} 

THE    WAITER 

But  Monsieur  —  it  is  forbidden  —  Madame 
would  — 

[The  Man  interrupts  with  an  authoritative 
gesture,  takes  bank  note  from  pocket  and 
gestures  the  waiter  to  hurry  —  again  stares 
front  a  moment  —  then  sighs  —  take s  news 
paper  from  pocket  and  places  it  against 
toast  rack,  takes  out  cigar,  lights  it  - 
draws  gratefully  at  the  weed  and  slowly 
ejects  the  smoke.  The  waiter  returns  with 
pot  of  coffee  and  cup  —  pours  coffee,  adds 
a  little  milk  from  glass  —  looking  anxiously 
meanwhile  toward  the  hoteQ 

[When  HE  has  finished  he  steps  toward  the 
entrance  like  a  conspirator^ 

THE    WAITER 

I  will  observe,  it  is  better  — 

[The  man  sips  the  coffee  —  his  eyes  on  the 


paper,  then  smokes  again,  slowly  the  hand 
holding  the  cigar  falls  to  his  knee  —  he 
looks  front  again,  a  far-away  wistful  ex 
pression  on  his  face  —  he  sighs  deeply 
and  says~\ 

Oh!     If  she  only  hadn't  taken  the  wrong 
trail  that  night  — 

[AS   THE    CURTAIN    FALLS] 

There  is  no  such  a  thing  as  credit  or  blame. 
June,  IQ2O 


PLAYING  GOLF 

GOLF  is  like  a  love  affair.  There's  no  fun 
in  it  unless  you  take  it  seriously,  and  if  you 
do,  it  breaks  your  heart.  A  really  great 
comedian,  Dan  Daly  (no  relation,  sorry  to 
say),  characterized  it  years  ago  in  that  perfect 
musical  comedy  "The  Belle  of  New  York/' 
Said  Dan,  with  that  inimitable  sepulchral 
drawl.  "You  place  a  ball  upon  the  ground, 
then  you  hit  it;  if  you  find  the  ball  the  same 
day  you  hit  it,  you  win  the  game." 

At  cure  resorts,  doctors,  with  the  fluent 
idiocy  that  not  only  fascinates  but  com 
mands  admiration,  frequently  prescribed  the 
game  for  tired  or  over-wrought  nerves.  Oh, 
Allah!  Mrs.  Allah,  and  even  Henry  and 
Michaela  Allah,  I  cry  you  mercy!  The  victim 
obediently,  with  a  child-like  stare  of  inno 
cence,  goes  to  his  doom,  and  later  in  a  dark 
ened  room,  with  the  usual  white-robed,  soft- 
spoken  nurse  in  attendance,  babbles  of  brooks 
and  forests,  "Three  up  and  I  haven't  won  a 
hole.  How  the  h-11  was  I  to  know  that  ditch 
was  there?  That's  a  nice  place  for  a  bunker. 


Yesterday  the  tee  was  over  there;  the  course 
was  hard  enough  then.  Why  don't  they  tell 
a  feller  when  they  are  going  to  move  it? 
They  told  me  the  ninth  was  easy,  just  a 
mashie  shot  to  the  green,  a  nice  short  hole; 
very  nice,  a  lake  on  one  side  and  a  jungle  on 
the  other.  Annie  Oakley  couldn't  do  it  with 
a  rifle."  Then  the  nurse  lifts  his  head  gently, 
bidding  him  forget  it  (forget  it?  if  he  only 
could).  He  gulps  a  foul  tasting  mixture  of 
bromide  and  falls  back  on  the  pillow  with 
twitching  nerves  and  a  heart  aching  with 
profanity. 

They  say  to  play  golf  well  one  must  keep 
in  practice.  I  have  always  assured  my 
friends  most  earnestly  that  there  lies  the 
reason  for  my  poor  game.  How  can  one  play 
well  flirting  with  clubs  only  once,  or  at  most, 
twice  a  year?  I  have  often  left  the  long  grass 
and  hurriedly  caught  up  with  a  companion  on 
the  fairway  to  explain  this.  Why  is  it  that 
one's  friends  become  so  narrow  minded  the 
moment  they  touch  a  golf  club  ?  Sticking  in 
a  ridiculous  way  to  a  sort  of  mid-Victorian 
conservative  attitude,  mentally,  towards  the 
game.  After  all,  primarily  the  object  of  the 
game  is  exercise.  How  can  one  get  much 
exercise  walking  the  straight  line  down  a 
fairway?  And  then  it  shows  such  a  boar-like 

C333 


ignorance  of  the  beauties  of  nature.  There, 
for  instance,  just  to  left  is  a  forest,  so  peaceful 
that  your  very  soul  pauses  to  listen,  and  your 
spirit  sighs  and  ceases  longing.  Drive  in 
there,  say  I,  and  promptly  do  so.  What  a 
splendid  gift  the  sense  of  exploration!  Then 
after  breaking  a  niblick  in  getting  out,  and 
incidentally  landing  in  the  tall  grass  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  course,  there  is  splendid 
solace  in  the  thought  that  at  least  your 
game  has  the  virtue  of  Catholicity  —  nothing 
narrow  minded  about  it.  I  have  explained 
all  this  laboriously  often  only  to  find  that 
my  companion  wasn't  listening.  Instead  he 
removes  a  pipe  from  a  particularly  ugly  face, 
points  with  an  arm  at  a  peculiarly  awkward 
angle  at  a  tiny  white  spot  on  the  green  close 
to  the  flag,  and  says,  with  eyes  seeking 
applause,  "How's  that  for  a  second?"  Not 
waiting  for  an  answer  he  stalks  away,  mutter 
ing  something  about  par  being  four  and  that 
he's  got  a  possible  three.  "But  then,"  I 
mused,  staring  after  his  ungainly  form,  "if 
after  all  you  choose  as  a  companion  a  man  in 
commercial  life  it  serves  you  right.  What 
can  you  expect?  He  has  the  soul  of  a  frog 
(now  preparing  to  play  five)  the  imagination 
of  a  kippered  herring  (look  at  the  ball,  you 
ninny  —  keep  your  head  down)  and  the  sen- 


sitiveness  of  a  Hun.  FORE!  No  luck,  I 
missed  him.  I  am  up  anyhow.  No,  —  I'm 
over;  in  the  ditch  again.  Well  I  am  damned! 
Yesterday  one  of  the  five  beautiful  women 
of  the  world  arrived  here.  No  —  I  shan't 
name  the  other  four,  nor  shall  I  tell  you  whom 
she  is,  except  to  mention  casually  that 
Vanity  Fair  published  her  picture  last  month, 
and  that  she  spent  a  small  fortune  and  two 
years  of  her  time  in  Belgium  in  relief  work. 
Her  declared  intention  in  coming  here  was 
to  reduce  her  weight  twenty  pounds.  Char 
ity  had  eaten  into  her  brain  until  finally  it 
included  the  entire  male  race.  "I  will  make 
myself  hideous,"  said  she.  "Then  let  us 
hope  men  will  forget  me  and  go  on  with  the 
serious  business  of  the  world."  I  asked  her 
to  play  golf.  She  consented  charmingly. 
"Just  what  I  need,"  she  crooned,  "to  get 
this  fat  off"  (Shades  of  Aphrodite  and  moans 
of  Chrysis,  that's  what  she  called  it).  "I 
must  warn  you,  however,  that  I  haven't 
played  for  years  and  I'll  probably  spoil  your 
game  (Ha  ha)  though  I  once  won  a  medal  at 
Deauville."  We  started  out.  I  was  aston 
ished  to  find  that  I  had  met  the  second  human 
being  I  have  ever  been  able  to  beat  at  the 
bonny  game.  "This  is  murder,"  I  muttered, 
as  I  brought  her  home  5  down.  Over  the 


iced  tea,  which  a  too  attentive  sun  had 
raised  to  the  height  of  a  luxurious  emotion, 
her  bewildering  hazel  eyes  assumed  a  thought 
ful  tint.  "I  think  that  tomorrow  I'll  go 
around  with  the  pro  for  an  hour  first/'  I 
gulped  my  disappointment.  "Then  play 
with  you  after,  if  I  may"  -the  "if  I  may"  de 
livered  with  a  smile  that  would  have  caused 
"The  Son  of  the  Morning"  to  groan  with 
envy  for  the  banal  reason  of  his  fall. 

The  next  day  a  happy  man  and  a  strangely 
confident  woman  paused  for  a  moment  on 
the  first  tee  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the 
morning.  Birds  sang,  and,  strange  to  say, 
not  too  noisily.  Peace,  utter  peace,  hung  in 
the  air.  We  stood  on  a  bluff,  a  murmuring 
brook  between  us  and  the  first  hole.  How 
truly  charming  it  looked  —  then  —  the  Green- 
brier  Mountain  before  us  stretched  its  lazy 
indolent  beauty,  indulgently,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  Old  Kate's  Mountain  be 
hind  us  reared  its  green  head  protectingly. 
"Nobody  looks  at  me,"  sighed  Miss  Green- 
brier  coquettishly  to  a  sunbeam-  "and  yet 
I  am  beautiful.  I  wonder  why?"  The  sun 
beam,  too  shy  to  answer,  carried  the  com 
plaint  to  old  Kate's. 

"Tell  my  daughter,"  said  she,  shaking  her 
hoary  head  slowly,  "  she  should  have  been  born 
C36] 


abroad  —  then  her  countrymen  would  have 
admired  her  vastly."  But  the  sunbeam  could 
not  understand  this,  and  after  thinking  it 
over  for  a  moment,  disappeared  in  great 
chagrin. 

"The  valley  of  the  green  wall,"  the  beautiful 
one  spoke  again  —  "How  dear  it  was  of 
nature  to  keep  the  horrid  world  outside.  I 
only  gazed  at  her  pityingly  —  my  thoughts 
on  the  game  —  so  fair  a  thing  to  be  despoiled 
— "it's  brutal,"  I  thought,  but  "it's  the  game," 
the  next  thought  shot  in  grimly.  "Won't 
you  take  the  honor?"  I  said,  with  what  I 
intended  for  a  charming  smile,  although  a 
startled  look  on  the  caddie's  face  made  me  a 
trifle  uneasy  as  to  its  efficacy. 

"What  will  you  give  me?"  she  asked. 
"My  life,"  I  answered,  huskily,  "I  mean  a 
stroke  a  hole." 

She  tried  a  practise  swing.  "Very  good," 
I  murmured  indulgently.  "Don't  forget  to 
keep  your  head  down."  Then  she  hit  it  a 
gentle,  slow,  rhythmic  stroke  and  the  ball 
sailed  its  dutiful  course  over  the  brook  —  on 
to  the  fairway  —  a  good  175  yards  at  least. 
She  looked  up  radiant.  "Isn't  that  splendid," 
she  gasped,  delightedly.  I  acquiesced  with 
an  insane  leer. 

"But  of  course  you'll  beat  it,"  she  purred 


—  "you  drive  so  splendidly."  After  that,  of 
course,  I  approached  the  ball  as  negligently 
as  one  may  expect  a  King  to  do  anything. 
With  careless,  even  debonair  ease,  I  drove 
the  ball  —  straight  into  the  brook. 

"What  a  pity,"  said  she,  "try  another." 
I  gazed  at  her  and,  presto!  My  mind  flew 
back  20  years.  I  was  fishing  —  the  scene 
Lake  St.  Clair  —  a  friend  with  me  —  and 
his  young  son  aged  7  —  4  hours  in  the  broil 
ing  sun  —  nary  a  bite  —  and  the  lad  pulling 
them  in  until  his  arms  ached  —  he  pauses 
from  his  joyful  labor  long  enough  to  note  my 
expression.  "Never  mind,"  said  he,  touching 
me  affectionately  on  the  arm.  "I'll  give  you 
all  my  small  ones."  I  was  startled  to  find  the 
same  murder  in  my  heart  for  my  fair  com 
panion  that  I  felt  for  the  boy  twenty  long 
years  ago. 

I  drove  another  ball.  This  time  I  got  over 
in  the  long  grass.  "That's  better,"  mur 
mured  Diana,  "much  better.  Don't  forget 
you  are  giving  me  a  stroke  a  hole.  We  de 
scended  the  hillside  —  somehow  the  beauty  of 
the  day  had  faded.  In  two  strokes  more  I 
managed  to  get  on  to  the  fairway --but  my 
heart  —  Oh,  my  God!  my  heart,  how  heavy 
it  was  -  "Let  me  see,"  she  puzzled,  "what 
club  shall  I  use  now?"  "Your  midiron,  of 


course/'  I  answered  "the  hole  is  just  over  that 
bunker."  "No/'  said  she  slowly,  "I  think" 
(looking  at  her  bag  as  a  child  looks  at  a  platter 
of  French  pastry)  "I'll  take  this  one,"  fish 
ing  out  a  brassie.  "You'll  go  over  it  with 
that,"  I  warned,  but  she  only  smiled  at  me 
wisely.  "I  don't  use  this  club  very  well," 
she  cooed,  "somehow  I  don't  seem  to  get 
the  hang  of  it.  Perhaps  I'd  better  take  a 
practise  swing."  I  looked  back  nervously 
to  the  first  tee  and  saw  the  worst  exhibition 
of  bad  acting  ever  witnessed  by  mortal  man 
—  a  foursome  pretence  at  concealing  im 
patience. 

"Now,  how  was  it  he  told  me  to  stand," 
she  continued,  "I  never  can  remember"  — 
"Oh  dear,  I  suppose  I'll  miss  it,"  and  then 
she  hit  it,  and  the  marvel  was,  the  world  went 
on  just  the  same  —  the  birds  sang  —  the  sun 
shone  —  the  breeze  gently  swept  by  us  — 
and  the  ball  lay  on  the  green.  Now  she  be 
trayed  a  kinship  to  a  bank  cashier.  "Let  me 
see,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  glistening,  "that's 
two,  isn't  it?  And  you  played  two  from  the 
tee  —  we  should  count  it  three  —  but  we'll 
call  it  two  then  two  out  of  the  long  grass  — 
that's  four.  Now  you're  playing  five;  yes, 
that's  right  —  5,"  she  breathed  victoriously. 

Now   the   devil   had   me  —  I   don't   know 


that  he  wanted  me  —  but  whether  or  no,  he 
had  me,  and  was  probably  sorry  for  the  job. 
I  played  savagely,  sullenly,  desperately. 

But  why  continue  a  tale  of  defeat  —  morti 
fication,  anger  —  black,  black  misery  —  all 
the  pain  and  sorrow  of  the  world  were  mine  — 

The  Queen  brought  me  home  6  down.  As 
we  passed  the  Old  White  she  paused  to  ad 
mire  its  simple  Colonial  lines.  "They  say," 
said  she  reflectively  —  "that  General  Wash 
ington  used  to  dance  on  the  very  floor  that's 
in  the  ball  room  now."  "Did  he?"  I  answered 
absently,  "I  wonder  what  he  went  round  in?" 

Golf  is  like  a  love  affair.      There  is  no 

fun  it  it  unless  you  take  it  seriously 

and  if  you  do,  it  breaks  your  heart. 

White  Sulphur  Springs 


C40] 


FATHER  AND  SON 

A    CONTEMPORANEOUS    OPINION 

In  space  indefinable  there  sat  the  figure  of 
a  man.  His  brow  was  not  broader  than  a 
continent  —  nor  his  eye  deeper  than  the  sea, 
therefore,  these  things  one  did  not  notice  — 
but  the  great  lines  of  suffering  about  the 
beautiful  mouth  made  all  those  who  saw, 
long  to  succor  and  serve  him  eternally.  It 
was  strange  that  whilst  he  sat  in  the  shadow 

—  a  wonderful  light  seemed  to  emanate  from 
him.     It  blinded  and  kept  all  prostrate  for 
centuries    until    they    understood  —  then    it 
warmed  them  in  a  glow  indescribable. 

An  old  man  leaning  on  a  great  staff  stood 
at  his  left  as  though  awaiting  a  final  order. 
His  great  white  beard  trailed  at  his  feet  — 
trailed  on  and  on  and  on  until  one  wondered 
where  it  ended.  It  was  long  enough  and 
beautiful  enough  to  clothe  all  the  children 
in  the  world  —  the  staff  trembled  in  his  hand 

—  surely  if  he  did   not   rest,   he  must  fall 
and  die  ?    But  he  knew  that  the  figure  before 


him  needed  rest  more  than  anything  that 
was  ever  known,  so  he  only  leaned  forward, 
the  better  to  listen,  for  the  other  was  about 
to  speak.  Slowly  the  great  mouth  opened 
and  the  sound  of  many  deep  bells  was  heard. 

"All  the  planets  are  at  peace  —  Saturn, 
Jupiter,  Venus  —  all  —  even  Mars,  all  but 
one/'  said  he,  "and  that  I  gave  to  my  young 
est  son  —  my  best  beloved  to  tend.  He  will 
not  fail  us,  therefore,  at  last  we  may  rest  — 
we  may  sleep  eternally  —  my  work  will  be 
done." 

He  raised  his  head,  and  it  seemed  that  a 
mountain  moved.  Then  the  face  softened 
unutterably.  He  spoke  again:  "I  hear  him 
-  He  comes.  Thou  shalt  hear  his  report  — 
Thine  old  ears  drink  in  his  success  —  Rest! 
—  Think  on  it  —  Hurry  —  greet  and  admit 
him." 

The  old  man   trembled  so  that  he  must 
needs  bid  the  wind  cease  ere  he  moved  - 
then  he  started  slowly  away. 

The  seated  figure  gazed  before  him.  The 
lines  of  pain  left  the  face  as  the  great  arms 
were  folded  o'er  his  chest.  Then  out  of  the 
shadow  there  stepped  the  figure  of  a  man  — 
the  face  was  so  tenderly  beautiful  that  look 
ing  upon  it,  strangely  enough,  the  first  great 
longing  was  to  see  it  smile  —  yet  the  mouth 


plainly  showed  that  it  had  never  done  that. 
This  man  had  never  known  laughter.  He 
wore  a  strange  sort  of  headdress  from  which 
drops  of  blood  coursed  down  his  brow,  also 
there  was  blood  upon  his  hands,  yea,  even 
upon  his  feet. 

His  eyes,  like  two  great  pools  of  truth  held 
a  wistful  longing  —  a  great,  great  sadness 
that  seemed  to  mirror  all  the  tragedy  of  the 
world  —  His  shoulders  drooped  —  slowly  he 
hung  his  head.  Then  he  spoke.  His  voice 
sounded  like  the  wind  whispering  the  unrest 
of  men  in  a  low  moan : 

"Father,  I  have  come/' 

The  old  man  came  from  the  shadow  lean 
ing  on  his  staff  and  gazed  upon  the  two 
wonderingly.  The  Father  turned  and  looked 
upon  the  boy. 

"What  strange  wreath  is  this  thou  dost 
affect?" 

"Thorns,"  answered  the  Son. 

Then  the  question  came  like  a  thunder 
clap  — 

"Wherefore?" 

"A  gift  from  my  children  — " 

"When?" 

"Some  two  thousand  years  ago." 

"But  since—" 

"Alas!    There  has  been  no  reason  to  re- 

Us  3 


move  them.  I  may  not  do  so  until  they  learn 
to  love/' 

The  Father  gazed  at  his  son  for  a  long  time 
—  the  old  man  tore  his  beard  in  anguish. 
Finally  the  Father  spoke: 

"Then  thou  hast  failed?" 

His  voice  was  harsh  with  defeat  and  sur 
prise.  The  Son  lowered  his  head,  and  when 
he  answered,  his  voice  moaned  all  the  misery 
of  the  universe  as  he  whispered : 

"I  have  failed/' 

The  Father  rose,  a  great  fierce  light  shone 
from  his  eyes.  He  reached  out  his  arm  —  the 
boy  sank  upon  his  knees.  The  old  man  made 
a  gesture  of  appeal.  Looking  long  upon  the 
Son's  pitiable  figure,  finally  the  great  face 
softened.  He  leaned  forward  and  gently 
raised  the  kneeling  form  and  held  it  tenderly 
in  his  arms  for  a  moment,  and  then  sat  him 
by  his  side.  He  had  but  just  then  observed 
the  ragged  holes  in  each  hand,  and  upon  each 
foot. 

After  a  long  pause  during  which  the  Son 
cried  softly,  the  Father  spoke: 

"Thou  shalt  speak  of  this - 

The  Son  raised  his  head,  the  eyes  swimming 
in  a  sea  of  tears.  The  Father  looked  at  him 
closely  and  understood  that  those  eyes  had 
wept  until  it  seemed  that  they  could  weep  no 


more.  Then  a  strange  feeling  of  pride  came 
over  him,  for  he  realized  that  only  his  Son 
could  find  more  tears  for  an  unworthy  world. 

The  Son  clasped  his  hand  and  began: 

"It's  simply  told  —  I  knew  when  thou 
did'st  send  me  of  thy  great  faith  and  1  was 
happy.  I  went  confident,  believing  in  them, 
but  alas,  I  found  only  mediocrity,  greed, 
bestiality  —  even  so,  I  thought  the  cure 
simple.  I  will  die  for  these  men.  It  is  the 
only  way.  That  will  waken  them,  and  so 
I  arranged  it,  after  gathering  a  few  wise  men 
about  me.  I  left  my  message,  and  then  it 
was  done.  They  stoned  me  and  sent  me  to 
thee  thus — "  holding  up  his  hands — "and 
the  man  who  sentenced  me,  the  next  day  for 
got  my  name,  but  after  all  I  must  not  chide 
him  for  that,  for,  — "  here  the  lips  almost 
smiled  —  "I  have  forgotten  his." 

"But  after ?"• — The  Father  asked  impa 
tiently. 

"I  said  that  I'd  return,"  the  Son  answered. 
"  But  I  felt  it  useless,  useless.  Two  thousand 
years  I  waited  for  a  sign  —  the  slightest  ges 
ture  whereby  I  could  hope,  but  it  did  not 
come.  Finally  into  the  mind  of  a  madman 
came  a  desire  to  dominate.  Another  had 
played  that  game  before  him  and  failed  but 
he  thought  his  predecessor  an  amateur  at 


arms  —  and  so  he  sounded  the  drum  —  in 
your  name/' 

"In  my  name"  -the  great  face  blazed 
its  amazement. 

"Always  when  they  fight  it  is  in  your  name  " 
—  the  Son  answered.  "It  is  a  game  they 
play,  'In  God's  name/  one  cries,  and  points 
out  the  enemy  as  "Sons  of  Lucifer."  -  It  is 
necessary.  They  must  find  a  reason,  for  they 
dare  not  tell  the  people  the  real  one.  None 
would  fight,  —  not  openly,  if  their  leaders 
proclaimed  'It  is  all  for  money'  —  and  so 
they  call  loudly  upon  'Honor,  Virtue,  Patriot 
ism  and  You'  Loudly  the  drums  sounded. 
Now  madness  was  loose.  I  thought  to  raise 
my  hand  and  then  I  paused  —  a  thought 
had  come  to  me.  My  death  had  created 
crucifixes,  plaster  casts  and  paintings  and 
they  thought  their  debt  was  paid  to  you. 
What  if  I  gave  rein  to  this  madness  for  a 
while?  Would  that  waken  them?  I  thought 
to  try  —  and  closed  my  eyes." 

Now  the  Son  paused  a  long  time.  The  lines 
of  pain  had  deepened  about  the  Father's 
mouth.  The  old  man  standing  near  swayed 
upon  his  staff  and  moaned.  Blood  trickled 
into  the  Son's  eyes  and  mingled  with  his  salt 
tears  unheeded.  He  continued,  his  voice  now 
like  a  wailing  wind  —  4  Ten  million  —  ten 


million  —  ten  million  souls  tricked,  as  a 
tribute  to  Greed/' 

"Whereas  I  had  thought  to  shock  them  — 
again  I  had  failed  —  I  failed!"  Now  the 
tears  rained  down.  "Failed!  For  my  chil 
dren  were  not  cold  in  their  graves  —  the  ink 
not  dry  upon  their  brother's  peace  papers  — 
when  they  were  forgotten,  and  the  world  went 
quickly  about  building,  again  to  destroy.  For 
all  built  upon  greed,  messengers  of  commerce, 
each  rushing  to  the  peace  table  to  have  the 
button  sewn  on  his  coat  —  their  own  negli 
gence  of  you  had  lost.  A  pageant  of  victory 
to  the  dead  —  Parades  to  lull  and  soothe  the 
public  conscience  —  honors  and  riches  heaped 
upon  the  vultures,  whilst  the  melodramatic, 
pretentious  lie  leapt  higher  and  higher  looking 
down  upon  the  fools,  screaming  a  hideous 
laughter  in  its  triumph  —  the  futility  of  peace 
without  kneeling  to  Thee  and  asking  Thy 
direction  never  occurred  to  them."  Here  he 
paused  —  then  resumed  sadly,  "There  were 
Three  who  were  elected  leaders,  One  a  tiger, 
at  bargaining  in  the  guise  of  Justice.  His 
people,  loving  money  most,  cried  privilege 
in  the  name  of  Art  —  whilst  denying  that 
any  other  nation  possessed  it. 

"Another,  an  arch  politician,  would  win  by 
any  means,  for  his  people  cried  peace,  whilst 


possessing  three-quarters  of  the  globe.  The 
third,  from  the  land  of  'Don'ts  and  Isms/ 
a  mere  pawn  in  their  hands,  dreaming  of  a 
sainthood,  imagined  that  he  could  sit  by 
Thy  side  on  the  score  of  ambition. 

"All,  each  and  every  one,  were  deaf  to  my 
whisper  that  they  should  kneel  each  day  and 
commune  with  Thee  to  seek  thy  counsel. 
Whither  art  they  going?  I  know  not.  I 
pray  Thee,  Father,  give  me  peace  of  them  — 
and  the  Son  fell  at  his  Father's  feet. 

The  Father  made  one  hopeless  movement 
and  then  his  face  grew  stern.  Slowly  he 
turned  and  faced  his  Son. 

"Thou  shalt  return/'  he  said.  "Thou 
knowest  that  I  may  not  rest  until  they  are 
at  peace.  This  task  I  gave  to  Thee,  my 
youngest,  my  best  beloved,  thinking  I  had 
given  thee  genius  —  knowing  that  they  were 
the  most  difficult,  I  trusted  Thee;  When  I 
sent  thee,  in  thy  youthful  confidence,  thou 
didst  not  think  it  necessary  to  consult  Me. 
Thou  thoughtest  them  worth  dying  for  —  I 
could  have  told  Thee  that  they  were  not. 
Thou  shalt  go  back  I"  and  now  his  voice  rose, 
as  though  to  wake  the  mountains.  "Only 
this  time  it  shall  be  as  I  say/' 

The  Son  raised  a  piteous  face  pleading, 
terror  shining  from  his  eyes  as  he  shrank 

' 


back,  the  blood  upon  his  brow,  hands  and 
feet  congealing. 

"Nay,    thou    shalt    return,"    the    Father 
decreed  —  "Shall  I  never  rest?" 

The  Son  gazed  upon  his  Father  in  great 
awe,  the  tears  raining  down,  and  down,  and 
down.     The  old  man  swayed  upon  his  staff 
and  fell,  tearing  his  beard  and  moaning. 
December,  1920. 


C493 


JAMES  STEPHENS 

AN    APPRECIATION 

IT  was  dusk.  At  the  end  of  the  dusty  road 
was  a  village  which  has  a  quaint,  restful  look, 
and  so  we  entered. 

Near  to  the  market  place  we  saw  a  dozen 
sweating  men  pulling  down  a  fountain.  They 
had  not  the  look  of  vandals;  yet  the  thing 
seemed  wanton  and  I  paused  to  ask  the 
reason. 

One  of  the  men  wiped  his  brow  with  a 
brawny  hand,  and  said: 

" Women  do  not  need  drink;  and  men  will 
find  it,  anyhow." 

To  this  I  said:  "The  fountain  is  beautiful 
-why  destroy  it?" 

"It's  this  way,"  the  man  replied.  "This 
village  is  charitable,  above  all  other  things; 
and  we  need  this  space  that  we  may  cure 
certain  men  who  are  suffering  of  a  grave 
unrest.  In  place  of  the  fountain,  we  mean 
to  set  up  a  great  ball  of  yarn,  then  these 
afflicted  ones  may  come  and  knit  all  through 


the  day;  also  they  may  gossip  and  confide 
their  thoughts  to  each  other.  In  this  way 
other  men  will  be  spared." 

"  But  what  men  are  these  whom  you  would 
thus  occupy?"  I  inquired. 

"They  are  the  young  neurasthenic  Christs," 
said  he,  and  counted  them  upon  his  strong 
fingers.  "By  name  they  are:  Wells,  Gals 
worthy  and  Conrad  —  all  Englishmen.  Then 
there  is  a  Frenchman,  Brieux;  and  of  Russians, 
God  help  us,  there  are  many  —  Tolstoi, 
Gorky,  Dostoyevsky,  Porebyshewski  and  so 
on,  to  the  end  of  time." 

"But,"  cried  I,  appalled,  "these  are  men  of 
letters!" 

He  only  wagged  a  stubborn  head. 

"Some  of  them,  indeed,  seem  to  have  the 
great  gift;  but  all  of  them  have  misunder 
stood  its  purpose." 

"Why,  then,"  said  I,  "Since  you  are  sitting 
so  confidently  in  judgment,  in  the  hands  of 
what  modern  scrivener  is  the  gold  of  thought, 
who  also  knows  its  value?" 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment;  then  I  saw 
the  big  shoulders  give  a  hopeless  twitch.  He 
said,  quite  simply  — 

"Why  James  Stephens." 

To  understand  a  snub  is  a  gift  in  itself; 
and  so  I  resumed  my  journey.  At  the  out- 


skirts  of  the  village  my  terrier  looked  back 
at  me,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  angry. 

"To  show  your  ignorance  so!"  said  he. 
"  It  is  too  bad." 

I  took  the  trouble  to  catch  up  with  him, 
for,  after  all,  he  is  a  good  dog. 

"In  what  have  I  shown  ignorance?"  I 
inquired. 

He  stared  at  me,  deep  reproach  in  his 
brown  eyes. 

"And  do  you  really  not  know  who  James 
Stephens  is?" 

"I  do  not." 

He  regarded  me  frankly. 

"Oh,  of  course!"  said  he,  finally.  "To 
be  sure  you  would  not." 

"Well,"  said  I  impatiently,  "I'm  waiting. 
At  least,  I'm  willing  to  learn." 

He  sat  down  in  the  dust  of  the  road  and 
looked  up  at  me  with  wise  eyes;  and  his 
voice  was  curiously  patient,  though  ironic, 
as  he  said: 

Stephens  is  a  man  who  is  working  in  Dublin 
for  three  pounds  a  week.  He  would  like  to 
get  more;  but  as  he  has  no  hope  of  it,  so, 
also,  he  will  not  be  disappointed  if  it  does 
not  come  to  pass.  He  is  one  of  the  few  who 
understand  the  gift  of  words;  and  so  he  is 
not  trying  to  misapply  it. 


I  shall  sing  with  my  pen,"  he  said.  For 
some  angel  had  whispered  to  him  that  it's 
a  great  thing  to  bring  joy  to  the  heart  of  man. 
For,  you  see,  the  angels  know  that  the  world 
is  gray  enough,  and  their  promptings  caused 
James  Stephens  to  put  into  his  finest  book 
"The  Crock  of  Gold"  all  the  laughter  in  the 
world,  all  the  poetry  and  all  the  wisdom. 
And  if  you  can  tell  me  what  more  should  go 
into  a  book,  I  would  like  to  hear  it.  You 
must  read  "The  Crock  of  Gold"  said  he, 
"and  then  you  must  ask  the  man  in  the  book 
shop  for  the  other  three.  Perhaps  it's  best 
that  I  do  not  tell  you  their  names.  But  this 
I  will  tell  you.  Get  them  one  at  a  time,  and 
read  each  of  them  at  least  twice — for  Stevens 
is  Irish,  you  see,  and  I  doubt"  —  here  he 
cocked  his  head  at  me  valuingly  —  "well, 
perhaps  you'll  not  understand  him  even  then. 
No  one  but  an  Irishman  could  write  these 
books.  And  no  one  but  an  Irishman  could 
really  understand  them  —  unless,  mark  you, 
it  be  a  person  of  rare  imagination.  And  in 
that  quality  I  have  always  taken  the  liberty 
to  doubt  you." 

"Further  understand,"  proceeded  he,  "that 
no  German,  however  great,  could  have  written 
'The  Crock  of  Gold';  no  dark  born  Russian 
could  even  attempt  it.  Wilde,  Stephens'  own 

Isil 


countryman,  would  have  given  his  soul  to 
have  written  it;  and  as  for  Shaw,  he  stands 
in  the  valley,  grimacing  with  his  cap  and 
bells,  peering  enviously  up  at  that  far  peak 
where  James  Stephens  stands,  smiling,  and 
listening  to  the  still  voices  of  beings  who  are 
kind  to  the  world. 

"And  remember  what  the  workman  said 
of  the  modern  scriveners  —  some  of  them 
possess  the  gift,  but  have  misunderstood  its 
purpose.  For  it  is  not,  mark  you,  the  prov 
ince  of  a  writer  to  save  men's  souls,  any 
more  than  it  is  an  architect's.  The  men  who 
so  try  to  ruin  their  gift  are  the  men  who  have 
never  recovered  from  the  surprise  of  discover 
ing  it.  Their  brains  shook  under  the  shock; 
they  drew  in  long  breaths  and  at  once  began 
to  take  themselves  seriously  —  they  imme 
diately  bethought  themselves  of  the  saving 
of  men  —  they  became  young,  neurasthenic 
Christs.  The  presumption  of  trying  to  save 
anyone!  My  point  of  view  is  far  enough 
removed  from  man's  to  see  the  folly  of  that. 
Man  will  never  be  saved;  he  will  always 
continue  a  fool;  for  only  as  a  fool  does  he 
fill  the  uses  of  nature.  Wisdom  for  man  is 
not  normal;  and  the  non-normal  leads  to 
madness." 

Here  he  paused;    and  as  I  looked  ahead 


there  was  no  horizon;  the  road  was  quite 
dark.  And  when  I  started  blindly  forward, 
the  terrier  spoke  again. 

Hadn't  we  better  turn  back?"  he  suggested. 
Without  question  I  turned,  and  before  us  lay 
the  lights  of  the  village  —  lights  that  seemed 
to  bid  one  not  to  think,  but  to  rest. 

"You  are  going  too  far/'  said  he,  "that  is 
your  home;  that  is  the  place  you  have  been 
so  long  looking  for. 

He  gazed  at  me  appealingly;  and  then,  as 
I  started  to  retrace  my  steps,  he  capered 
about,  and  leaped  up  at  me  in  vast  content. 


An   epigram   is  never  written.     Someone 

says  it  —  somebody  overhears  it  and 

the    third   person    remembers    it. 


DEMOCRACY'S    KING 

CHARACTERS 

WILLIAM  POINCARE 

GEORGE  KERENSKY  * 

ALBERT  THE    AMERICAN 
EMMANUEL 

Two  guards  and  a  number  of  children 

[Curtain  rises  on  last  strains  of  "Star 
Spangled  Banner."  When  up,  "Taps"  is 
beard  in  distance,  then  guard  enters  from  right} 

The  scene  is  a  charming  orchard  in  autumn 
just  at  sunset.  The  soft  amber  light,  filtering 
through  the  trees,  gives  an  impression  of  un 
utterable  peace  until  the  eye  is  caught  by  a 
noose  that  sways  gently  from  the  limb  of  a 
dignified  apple  tree,  which  stands  quite  alone 
in  the  foreground  —  alone  —  as  tho  conscious 
of  the  importance  of  its  mission.  Someone  has 
placed  a  long  table  just  to  the  right  of  the  apple 
tree  with  two  stools  at  either  side  and  one  at 
the  head  facing  the  tree,  another  at  the  foot. 
There  is  a  path  running  up  to  the  right,  tho 

*  Written  at  the  time  Kerensky  was  in  power. 


one  can  barely  distinguish  it  now,  as  it  is 
covered  with  leaves.  Along  this  path  heavy, 
crunching  footsteps  are  beard,  the  dead  leaves 
whistling  in  sharp  protest. 

[An  armed  guard  enters  and  stands  aside; 
he  is  followed  by  six  hulking  figures  in  various 
German  uniforms.  After  them  another  guard, 
armed  also,  who  stands  beside  his  mate;  the 
six  figures  skulk  in  the  background.  Then 
voices  are  heard  as  jive  gentlemen  enter  with 
grave  faces,  discussing  very  seriously  something 
which  has  evidently  upset  them  very  much. 
They  approach  the  table  and  stand  about  it  a 
moment  continuing  their  discussion  before  sit 
ting,  which  they  do  quite  informally] 

POINCARE 

It  is  unheard  of. 

EMMANUEL 

Certainly,  it  has  never  been  done  [_sits~] 

KERENSKY 

Even  I  would  not  have  asked  for  so  much 

—  and  you  —  [sits"] 
[Turning  to  Albert] 

ALBERT 

I  have  no  emotion  left.     As  I  said  before 

—  I  do  not  care.     It  is  over  now  —  let  him 
go  [sits] 


POINCARE  [excitedly"] 

But  the  American  will  not  —  nor  will  he 
consider  anything  but  this. 

[Looks  up  at  the  noose,  shudders,  then  con 
tinues"] 

And  he  decides  it  all  with  a  smiling  face  - 
but  when  you  try  to  move  him  —  Mon  Dieu! 

[George  sits  during  this  speech"] 

[Shrugs  his  shoulders] 

Then  he  is  granite.  You,  Your  Majesty, 
you  said  nothing  at  the  conference. 

[Turning  to  George] 

GEORGE 

I  am  at  a  loss  —  I  am  dumbfounded.  It  is 
not  regular. 

EMMANUEL 

What  to  do?    He  will  consider  nothing  less. 

KERENSKY 

After  all,  gentlemen,  we  must  remember 
the  agreement.  It  was  thoroughly  understood 
the  American  was  not  to  be  called  in  unless 
his  voice  decided  the  issue. 

POINCARE  [gravely"] 
That  is  true. 

[Steps  are  heard  on  the  path~\ 
Hush!    They  are  coming. 


\_Each  man  rises.  WILLIAM  enters,  his  face 
white  and  drawn,  all  the  actor  out  of  him 
now.  The  sneaking  figures  in  the  shadow 
catch  his  eye  and  a  bitter  smile  touches  the 
corner  of  his  mouth.  The  young  American 
by  his  side  is  easy,  graceful,  unconcerned, 
as  tho'  out  for  an  afternoon  stroll.  William 
sees  the  noose,  pauses,  the  American  gently 
touches  him  on  the  arm.  He  pulls  himself 
together,  and  knowing  what  is  expected  of 
him  walks  firmly  until  he  stands  beneath 
the  noose.  The  American  joins  the  other 
gentlemen,  offering  them  a  cigarette;  they 
look  at  him  amazed  as  they  politely  decline. 
He  gestures  to  them  to  be  seated,  as  he  takes 
the  stool  at  the  head  of  the  table  facing 
William.  Albert  looks  at  the  American  a 
moment,  then  seats  himself  at  the  foot,  his 
head  sinking  wearily  on  his  arms;  the 
others  seat  themselves  slowly,  as  tho'  in  a 
daze"] 

THE    AMERICAN 

Well,  gentlemen,  it  is  the  end.  Let  us  get 
on  with  if;  I  regret  to  say  that  I  must  hasten 
home.  There  is  important  work  waiting  to 
be  done. 

[They  all  stare  at  him  again,  except  Albert, 
who  remains  motionless*] 


William,  have  you  anything  to  say?  Any 
message  to  leave? 

WILLIAM 
There  is  nothing  —  it  is  finished. 

THE  AMERICAN  [contemplatively"] 
You're  a  curious  man,  you  know.  You've 
failed  at  everything.  You  would  be  a  musi 
cian,  only  to  have  your  own  people  laugh  in 
their  sleeve.  A  patron  of  art  —  had  you  no 
one  to  tell  you  that  art  cannot  be  patronized  ? 
One  may  only  serve  it  on  one's  knees. 
Whether  to  create  or  possess,  it  must  be 
loved  devotedly  and  tended  abjectly.  Had 
you  a  genius  in  your  midst  you  were  ever 
blind,  but  if  there  was  a  merchant  prince's 
yacht  in  the  harbor  your  eye  was  ever  far- 
seeing  and  your  hand  ever  ready  to  pin  a 
medal  on  a  brewer's  breast. 

WILLIAM  [contemptuously'] 
What  do  you  know  of  art  in  America?    A 
Democracy. 

THE    AMERICAN 

True,  alas!  There  is  no  place  for  art  in 
the  building  of  a  nation,  but  that  only  makes 
your  crime  the  greater.  When  a  prince  mis 
took  power  for  privilege  democracy  was  born 


and  art  was  thrust  aside,  as  an  aged  relative 
—  always  in  the  way. 

KERENSKY  [grimly'] 

Art  may  wait  a  little  longer.  One  can  think 
better  on  it  with  a  belly  full  of  food. 

THE  AMERICAN  [smiling] 

I  daresay  —  I  only  mentioned  it  as  one 
of  his  many  failures.  But  it  was  his  last,  his 
most  brilliant  failure  —  that  fascinates  me, 
the  one  that  has  brought  us  all  together. 
Tell  me — [Turning  to  Poincari] —  had  he 
taken  Paris  when  he  thought  to  dine  there, 
would  you  have  been  beaten? 

POINCARE  [simply'} 
The  French  are  never  beaten. 

THE    AMERICAN   \jhwly~] 

No  —  but  had  he  by  any  chance  won,  of 
course  the  rest  was  simple,  with  forty  years' 
preparation, — [Then  turning  to  William}  — 
the  French  beaten,  the  English,  then  unpre 
pared,  would  hardly  have  been  a  mouthful. 
Then  back  to  the  Eastern  front,  and  the 
Russians  with  all  their  generals  bribed  would 
have  been  easy  for  you,  William,  whilst 
Nicholas  waited  to  see  what  you  would  leave 
C6I3 


for  him.  Then  after  a  slight  rest  and  a  bless 
ing  upon  God,  your  next  move  was  South 
America,  then  North  America,  and  after  that 
the  rest  was  simple.  A  damned  interesting 
game  —  interesting  indeed.  I  wonder  if  one 
man  prevented  its  going  through,  and  if  he 
did  it  would  be  curious  to  know  just  how  he 
feels  about  it. 

[Turning  to  Poincare~\ 

You  must  ask  Papa  Joffre  some  day. 

\_Poincare  gravely  nods  his  head~\ 
But  didn't  it  occur  to  you,  William,  that  the 
God  whom  you  were  gracious  enough  to  adopt 
as  your  nephew  was  by  your  side  in  very 
truth,  nearer  even  than  you  imagined,  just 
by  your  shoulder?  Only,  strange  to  say,  He 
did  not  seem  to  agree  with  you  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  your  course.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  He  caused  every  blow  you  struck  to 
prove  a  boomerang  (slight  movement).  For  it 
has  been  a  boomerang,  William  —  every  single 
blow.  Have  you  thought  of  that  ? 

[The  others  look  up  at  this,  even  Albert 
slightly  raises  his  head.  This  thought  had 
not  occurred  to  them  before~\ 

WILLIAM 

[Looks  a  moment  at  the  American,  then 
slowly  up  at  the  noose  above  his  head,  then 

C62] 


back  to  the  American  again.     He  begins 
very  deliberately} 

It  is  not  the  moment  for  anything  except 
the  truth.     What  you  have  said  is  perfectly 
correct,  young  man.    I  had  a  dream  — 
\_Now  bis  gaze  shifts  to  the  setting  sun,  and 
he  continues  as  iho    oblivious  of  them  for 
a  moment  —  in  a  spirit  of  exaltation] 
Such  a  wonderful  dream.     Ach   Gott!     I 
was   on   the   mountain   top   forever   looking 
down  upon  you  all.    Everything  that  Caesar 
and  Napoleon  failed  to  do  I  meant  to  accom 
plish.     My  beautiful  language  was  to  be  the 
only  tongue  in  the  world,  everywhere  my  flag! 
so  that  in  the  centuries  to  come  my  people 
would  always  kneel  in  gratitude  to  the  mem 
ory  of  William  the  Greatest. 

[Then   mournfully   his  gaze  returns  to   the 

American} 

And  it  has  come  to  this  —  are  you  satisfied  ? 
[The  American  rises  to  answer;    WILLIAM 

gestures  him  to  sit  again} 
One   moment  —  I   have   not   finished.     You 
truly  said  each  blow  has  been  a  boomerang, 
but  you  neglected  to  properly  sum  up  the 
result. 

[Then  proudly"] 

I  have  re-created  you  all.    What  you  are  and 
what  you  may  be  in  the  future  is  the  result 

C  63  3 


of  my  work.  Mark  that  well.  I  would  have 
been  the  world's  Emperor,  the  epitome  of 
imperialism  —  that  was  my  ambition.  It  is 
fate  that  I  must  go  down  into  history  as 
Democracy's  King.  Truly,  the  Ironic  God 
was  at  my  shoulder.  But,  at  least,  you  will 
admit  that  the  little  game  I  played  resulted 
in  producing  one  King  who  did  not  mistake 
power  for  privilege,  Albert  —  try  to  found  a 
democracy  in  Belgium  if  you  dare. 

[}Vhimsically~] 

Tho'  you  might  in  Italy  some  day--^r- 
haps,  eh  ?  Emmanuel  ?  And  yet  my  little 
game  was  of  some  slight  service  to  you  also; 
at  least  I  turned  a  bad  poet  into  a  good  soldier. 

EMMANUEL 

I  do  not  care  for  you,  or  the  poet  either. 
If  they  want  democracy  they  can  have  it; 
I  only  want  my  garden. 

WILLIAM 

[Then  mournfully  again} 

As  ye  reap  —  oh,  my  God!  Now  I  under 
stand  —  if  we  had  all  been  as  Albert,  your 
democracy  —  [to  American'} 

^Contemptuously'] 
had  never  been  born. 


\_Then  turning  to  George ',  his  eye  lighting 
George !  You  thought  I  hated  England ;  you 
were  wrong. 

GEORGE 

1  thought  nothing.  \_Pause~]  I  wish  my 
grandmother  had  been  here  to  deal  with  you 

—  all  this  might  have  been  avoided.     Even 
my  father  understood  you.     I  never  wanted 
the  responsibility  — 

\With  sudden  heat} 

Why  did  you  not  let  us  alone  ? 

WILLIAM 

Why  did  I  not  let  you  alone?  Because  I 
envied  you  your  commercial  supremacy. 
Yours  is  the  greatest  market  place  in  the 
world;  you  are  the  greatest  salesmen.  It 
has  ever  been  so,  and  now,  oh  God!  it  will 
ever  be  so.  And  you  conquer  in  commerce 
whilst  you  play  —  your  golf  —  your  cricket 

—  your  shooting.     "It  is  a  fine  day"  —  you 
say;   "let  us  go  out  and  kill  something/'    And 
yet  you  win,  playing  at  the  thing  I  am  most 
serious     about  —  business.  —  It     is    baffling. 
Why  did  I  not  let  you  alone  indeed?    That 
was  my  greatest  folly.    You  were  dying  slowly 

—  surely  dying;   senility  was  on  you,  the  fog 
was  in  your  brain.     Commercially  you  were 
rotting;   the  world  was  passing  you  by;   the 


sleep  of  centuries  was  coming  o'er  your  eyes, 
and  I,  like  a  fool,  awakened  you.  To-day  you 
are  younger  and  stronger  than  you  have  ever 
been.  Tell  me,  to  whom  do  you  owe  your 
youth  ? 

\_American  rises,  goes  upstage,  George  looks 
away} 

No,  I  did  not  hate  the  English,  George, 
tho'  I  did  hate  —  shall  I  tell  you  whom  ?  The 
French! 

[POINCARE  looks  at  him  startled"} 

Yes,  your  people  —  I  hated  from  the  bottom 
of  my  soul  because  they  knew  how  to  laugh 

\_All  move  looking  from  one  to  other'} 
whilst  I  could  only  make  a  guttural  sound  — 
a  hideous  noise,  most  repulsive.     Ah!     how 
the  French  can  laugh,  and  what  is  supremacy 
without  laughter? 

POINCARE 
You  have  found  we  can  be  serious  also,  eh  ? 

WILLIAM 

I  care  nothing  for  that.  You  have  won, 
and  it  is  over.  It  was  the  child  in  you  that 
beat  me,  Poincare,  the  happy,  laughing  child 
that  is  in  the  heart  of  every  Frenchman.  Be 
content  that  you  are  the  greatest  nation  on 
earth  —  now  —  tho'  you  too  were  dying.  Tell 
me,  who  has  made  you  strong  again? 

C66H 


\_Poincare  stares,  unable  to  answer} 

As  for  you,  my  man,  — 

[Looking  at  Kerensky~} 

had  Nicholas  not  been  a  fool  you  would  still 
be  in  Siberia.  Since  you  would  rule  accept 
a  word  from  an  old  hand  at  the  game:  Be 
ware  of  fanaticism;  it's  as  dangerous  as 
imperialism.  And  if  you  are  honest  tell  your 
people  that  Russia,  the  home  of  bribery  and 
corruption,  was  cleansed  and  made  ready  for 
freedom  by  the  blow  of  William,  the  failure. 
Now,  gentlemen,  you  may  complete  this  cere 
mony,  and  yet  my  work  is  not  complete 
altho'  it  is  near  the  end.  Young  man  from 
across  the  sea  — 

[Looking  at  the  American} 
do  you  think  it  wise  to  pull  this  rope  before  I 
have  completely  taken  the  paunch  off  America  ? 

THE    AMERICAN 

[Looking  at  him  quickly,  then  his  face  becom 
ing  very  grave~\ 

It  is  true,  William,  that  you've  done  a  good 
day's  work,  and  also  that  the  paunch  must 
come  off.  But  that  we  must  leave  in  the 
hands  of  God.  You  see,  1  trust  Him,  whereas 
you  directed  Him.  Observe,  William,  it  is 
an  apple  tree  you  stand  under.  Do  you  not 
know  the  wisdom  of  the  fable  ?  God  did  not 


forbid  the  apple  because  He  was  especially 
fond  of  it  but  simply  to  teach  Adam  inhibition. 

[Then  rising] 

Are  you  ready,  William  ? 

WILLIAM 
Yes. 

[The  American  signals  one  of  the  guards, 
who  goes  off  into  the  shadow.  The  Ameri 
can  approaches  William,  taking  a  bit  of 
string  out  of  his  pocket,  speaking  as  he 
approaches  and  during  the  following  tying 
William's  hands  behind  his  back~\ 

THE    AMERICAN 

You  always  wanted  to  be  first,  William; 
now  your  wish  is  gratified  unless,  by  any 
chance,  one  of  the  six  to  follow  would  prefer 
to  play  the  leading  part?  {laugh"] 

{The  six  figures  in  the  shadow  fall  upon 
their  knees,  wailing  and  groaning.  Then 
the  happy  laughter  of  many,  many  children 
is  heard.~] 

WILLIAM 

\_Starting  apprehensively"} 
What  is  that? 

THE    AMERICAN 

That?  Nothing,  only  the  laughter  of 
children. 

C683 


WILLIAM  [nervously'] 

What  do  they  here  ? 

THE  AMERICAN  [reproachfully'] 

You  ask  that,  William?  I  am  surprised. 
Why,  after  you  they  play  the  principal  part. 
They  are  to  pull  the  rope. 

\_All  men  rise  —  exclamation} 

WILLIAM 

No !  No !  You  wouldn't  —  you  couldn't ! 
It's  the  revenge  of  a  fiend  from  hell.  My  God, 
no !  Not  at  the  hands  of  children. 

[The  laughter  is  heard  again} 

THE  AMERICAN    [7ft  his  ear] 
Are   you   shuddering  because  you  fear  it 
will  soil  them  ?    That  is  good  of  you,  William, 
but  do  not  fear;  I  have  told  them  it  is  a  little 
game  they  are  playing  —  just  a  little  game 
for  them  as  you  played  yours  for  yourself. 
[The  laughter  comes  again  (one  short  peal)~] 
Their  laughter  is  simply  an  echo  of  the 
moans   of  their   little    brothers   and    sisters. 
[Children  run  on,  laughing] 
[_A  groan  breaks  from  William  as  a  hundred 
laughing  children  enter,  some  picking  up 
the  rope,  others  surrounding  William,  put 
ting  their  arms  around  him  and  shouting 
in  their  childish  voices'] 
C693 


"Come,  Uncle  William,  let's  play  Lusi- 
tania." 

\JVilliam  shrinks  from  them,  hoarsely  crying] 

WILLIAM 

No!  No! 

[ The  others  take  up  the  cry~\ 
"Yes,  Uncle  William,  let's  play  Lusitania. 
You  go  up  and  we  go  down." 

[Albert's  head  is  bowed  upon  his  arms,  also 
George;  Emmanuel  is  praying;  Kerensky 
turns  down  right,  unable  to  stand  the  strain; 
Poincare  staggers  off,  as  the  children,  con- 
tinuing  the  cry,  take  the  rope  and  retreat 
off  into  the  dusk.  The  sun  has  set.  The 
rope  is  a  straight  line  like  a  tight  rope 
ready  for  a  performance;  the  American  has 
the  noose  in  his  hands.  As  he  settles  it 
over  the  head  of  William  the  curtain  de 
scends  to  the  sound  of  the  low,  hoarse  sob 
bing  of  the  six  figures  in  the  shadow,  and 
the  laughing  cries  of  the  children} 

"Let's  play  Lusitania,  Uncle  William  —  you 
go  up  and  we  go  down." 

\_Ajter  children's  voices  die  away  in  distance, 
sound  "Taps"  and  on  last  strains  ring 
curtain^ 

Immorality  reaches  its  apex  when   one   is 
inefficient  and  sits  in  a   high   place. 


WHY  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS  COULD 
ONLY  HAVE  BEEN  WRITTEN  BY 
AN  ACTOR 

A  DINNER  arranged  by  a  friend  with  an 
outrageous  appetite  for  discussion  brought  us 
face  to  face  one  night  with  an  ardent  advo 
cate  of  the  Baconian  theory.  The  terrific 
fascination  which  all  mediocre  reasoning  com 
pels,  held  us  spellbound  for  the  moment. 
However,  the  spirit  of  charity  triumphed, 
and  although  knowing  the  futility  of  trying 
to  create,  on  barren  soil,  we  bravely  cut  into 
the  ivory,  and  only  admitted  failure,  when 
the  poor  blunted  knife  snapped  indignantly, 
preferring  death  to  such  a  hopeless  expedi 
tion.  And  only  weariness,  that  insufferable 
weariness  which  only  boredom  can  bring; 
and  is  invariably  created  by  the  reasoning  of 
college  professors,  when  discussing  creative 
work,  leads  us  back  to  this  time-worn  ques 
tion. 

It  sounds  too  feeble  to  quote  the  reasoning 
of  our  Baconian  friend,  but  I  fear  it  is  neces 
sary,  for  after  all,  it  is  practically  the  reason 
ing  of  all  Baconian  theorists,  —  to  wit,  — 


that  it  was  impossible  for  Shakespeare  to 
have  acquired  the  education  necessary  for 
the  writing  of  these  plays,  that  their  great 
literary  beauty  was  impossible  of  achieve 
ment  except  at  the  hands  of  a  scholar,  etc., 
etc.,  —  in  short,  the  gentleman  proved  most 
carefully  that  two  and  two  make  four. 

In  the  first  place,  we  feebly  admit  that  we 
do  not  know  what  a  scholar  is.  William 
Archer  once  disclaimed  being  one  with  a 
rather  grateful  note  in  his  voice,  but  had  he 
thought  the  peculiar  product  worthy  of  analy 
sis,  he  might  have  found  that  it  spells  a 
brain  crammed  with  bits  of  knowledge  on 
various  subjects,  and  no  ability  to  master 
any  one.  Not  for  a  moment,  however, 
should  one  decry  education;  it  is  a  splendid 
thing,  but  at  best  only  polishes  the  diamond. 
In  creative  work  it  has  achieved  nothing.  A 
study  of  the  great  psychologists  will  enhance 
the  knowledge  of  a  philosophic  mind,  but 
that  study  is  useless  unless  the  brain  has  a 
very  natural  aptitude  for  the  subject.  As  to 
two  and  two  making  four  —  that  is  perfectly 
absurd.  Two  and  two  make  five  when 
Shakespeare  or  Goethe,  or  even  a  musician 
like  Strauss  cracks  his  whip.  And  all  that  to 
this  effect,  —  and  I  crave  for  this  point  the 
reader's  grave  consideration  —  it  would  have 


been  a  much  more  remarkable  thing  for  Lord 
Bacon  to  have  possessed  the  knowledge  of  the 
technique  of  the  stage  which  these  plays  betray 
than  it  would  have  been  for  Mr.  Shakespeare 
to  have  possessed  sufficient  education  to  write 
them. 

Their  literary  quality  is  not  their  domi 
nant  trait,  all  the  college  professors  in  Chris 
tendom  to  the  contrary,  although  it  is  most 
difficult  to  prove  this  to  the  layman's  mind. 
No  genuine  student  of  play  construction  re 
quires  any  explanation  of  this  statement. 
The  simple  fact  suffices.  Ibsen  would  under 
stand  it  at  once,  and  betray  genuine  surprise 
that  anyone  doubted  it.  No  dilettante  versi 
fier  in  the  theatre  could  ever  know  it,  nor 
would  he  understand  what  one  was  driving 
at,  and  no  amount  of  explanation  would 
convince  him.  But  for  those  who  can  "  smell " 
the  situation,  for  those  who  have  any  "nos 
trils"  for  the  theatre  at  all  a  few  instances  will 
be  sufficient. 

Let  us  remember  that  Mercutio  is  killed 
not  so  much  by  Tybalt's  skilful  fencing  as 
by  Romeo's  stupid  interference.  That  is 
drama.  In  warring  interests  it  is  always  the 
innocent  bystander  who  suffers.  Further,  it 
is  not  the  literary  quality  that  commends 
Mercutio's  speech  to  us. 


"No:  'tis  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a 
church  door,  but  'tis  enough  —  'twill  serve:  1  am 
peppered,  I  warrant  for  this  world. — A  plague  on  both 
your  houses!  —  What!  a  dog,  a  rat,  a  mouse,  a  cat,  to 
scratch  a  man  to  death!  A  braggart,  a  rogue,  a  villain, 
that  fights  by  the  book  of  arithmetic!  —  Why  the 
devil  came  you  between  us?  I  was  hurt  under  your 
arm." 

Not  the  literary  quality  but  the  philosophic 
reasoning  of  this  "gets  us."  Any  more  than 
it  was  the  poetic  value  in  Burns'  lines  which 
made  them  beautiful,  but  again  the  philo 
sophic  reasoning,  and  that  one  does  not  get 
in  school. 

"Now  wad  the  power,  the  gift  to  gi'e  us 
To  see  ourselves  as  ithers  see  us." 

The  cunningly  wrought  interest,  the  tense 
ness,  the  suspense  of  the  trial  scene  in  the 
"Merchant  of  Venice."  There  we  have 
wonderfully  wrought  drama  —  wonderfully 
wrought  indeed  by  the  master-hand  of  the 
theatre.  He  leads  the  audience  up  to  the 
knife  at  the  breast  before  he  gives  them 
relief  by  telling  that  the  Jew  must  get  his 
pound  of  flesh  but  .  .  . 
PORTIA. 

"Shed  thou  no  blood;   nor  cut  thou  less  nor  more 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh:    if  thou  takest  more 
Or  less  than  a  just  pound  —  be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light  or  heavy  in  the  substance, 


Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 

Of  one  poor  scruple!     nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 

But  in  the  estimate  of  a  hair,  — 

Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate." 

GRATIANO. 

"A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip." 

Is  that  literature?  Of  course,  but  the 
literary  quality  must  take  second  place  to 
the  dramatic.  It  is  in  "the  drama"  that  the 
situation  is  dominant  —  the  Jew  tricked  and 
the  scales  turned  in  Gratiano's  exultant 
repetition  of  Shylock's  phrase.  Who  else  but 
an  old  trickster  of  the  theatre  would  have 
expected  us  to  believe  that  Portia's  disguise 
could  have  deceived  Bassanio!  That  trick 
was  in  keeping  with  Augustus  Thomas'  put 
ting  a  stamp  on  an  envelope  in  a  situation  in 
"Arizona,"  and  then  declaring  the  communi 
cation  under  the  protection  of  the  United 
States  Government,  despite  the  fact  that 
we  all  know  the  government  is  not  responsible 
until  the  letter  is  in  its  charge.  Or  William 
Gillette's  trick  in  perhaps  the  finest  melo 
drama  written  in  twenty  years,  namely, 
"Secret  Service"  wherein  the  Southern  spy 
tries  to  prevent  the  Northern  spy  sending 
his  message  over  the  wires  by  drawing  the 
General's  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 

C753 


signature  is  pasted  on  the  message.  Thorn's 
answer  is:  "They  often  come  that  way,  Sir," 
and  gets  away  with  it.  Ask  Mr.  Gillette  or 
Mr.  Thomas,  and  we  will  wager  that  they 
will  confess  that  these  tricks  are  only  the 
result  of  a  knowledge  of  the  theatre  learned 
by  serving  the  institution  patiently  on  their 
knees  for  years.  The  knocking  on  the  gate, 
after  the  murder  of  Duncan  which  makes 
Macbeth  quake  with  fear  and  results  in 
MacdufFs  entrance,  the  man  who  is  going  to 
kill  him  in  the  end.  Theatre!  Theatre! 
Theatre!  and  such  perfect  theatre! 

Hamlet's  scene  with  Marcellus  and  Horatio 
in  which  he  makes  them  swear. 

HAMLET. 

"Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen, 

Swear  by  my  sword. 
GHOST.     \_Beneatb~] 

Swear. 
HAMLET. 

Hie  et  ubique?     then  we'll  shift  our  ground 

Come  hither,  gentlemen, 

And  lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword: 

Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  heard, 

Swear  by  my  sword. 
GHOST.     [Beneatb~] 

Swear. 
HAMLET. 

Well  said,  old  mole!    canst  work  i'  the  earth  so  fast? 

A  worthy  pioneer!    Once  more  remove,  good  friends." 


His  father  murdered,  the  boy's  desire  to 
revenge  his  death.  His  agony  of  mind  in 
trying  to  concentrate  on  that,  and  insure  no 
interference  or  miscarriage  of  his  plans,  by 
swearing  his  friends  to  secrecy,  and  the 
terrific  mental  torment  he  feels  on  hearing 
the  Ghost's  unrest  in  the  ground  in  his 
constant  repetition  "Swear,"  the  effort  to 
escape  from  the  tragedy  in  that  cry  from 
the  cold  ground  in  "then  we'll  shift  our 
ground"  and  again  in  "Once  more  remove, 
good  friends,"  this  is  sheer  theatre  at  its 
best,  just  as  the  Ghost's  visitation  in  the 
closet  scene  to  remind  Hamlet  of  his  oath 
when  the  boy  is  pleading  with  his  mother 
"go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed"  —  "Assume 
a  virtue  if  you  have  it  not,"  is  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  situations  the  stage  has  ever  seen, 
and  when  properly  played  the  audience  would 
be  too  limp  with  tears  to  care  a  button 
whether  the  scene  held  any  literary  quality 
or  not.  In  fact  the  over  emphasis  of  the 
literary  quality  in  the  plays  is  as  damnable 
as  the  bad  acting  we  see  so  often  in  them, 
and  as  answerable  for  the  fact  that  they  are 
performed  so  infrequently.  The  actor's 
"mouthing"  of  his  resonant  speech,  and  his 
love  for  his  bell-like  tones  befogs  the  issue, 
and  is  cousin  indeed  to  the  "reading  in"  by 


grave    college    professors    of    meanings    the 
dramatist  "wotted  not  of." 

The  famous  "To  be  or  not  to  be"  soliloquy 
is  a  striking  instance  of  a  cardinal  error  in 
dulged  in  by  scholarly  actors,  LL.D.'s,  B.A.'s, 
etc.,  etc.  Their  countless  discussions  as  to 
the  correct  emphasis  in  reading  must  have 
caused  Shakespeare  to  wake  again  with 
laughing.  Correct  reading  is  only  an  ex 
traneous  thing  in  acting.  Though  neces 
sary  in  verse,  it  should  never  become  para 
mount  to  the  principal  work  in  hand,  which 
is  to  convey  the  "thought"  of  a  scene  by 
showing  the  audience  quite  clearly,  the  sub 
ject  in  the  mind  of  the  character,  regardless 
of  what  he  or  she  is  saying  at  the  moment. 
Thus  when  Hamlet  in  welcoming  Horatio 
says-  "We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep  ere 
you  depart"  his  mind  is  wondering  at  the 
fact  that  the  court  can  follow  its  usual  bent, 
and,  Great  God!  his  mother  can  ask  him  why 
he  grieves  for  his  father  who  is  only  two 
months  dead.  "Nay,  not  so  much,  not  two." 
If  this  method  is  followed  in  "To  be  or  not 
to  be,"  silly  discussion  as  to  emphasis  must 
cease  and  the  principal  point,  namely,  that 
the  speech  is  a  psychological  reasoning  upon 
"suicide,"  would  be  brought  out.  When 
this  is  done  an  actor  may  defy  his  severest 


critic,  —  nay,  even  his  best  friend  to  dis 
cover  what  emphasis  he  employs  because  he 
has  succeeded  in  making  his  audience  "un 
conscious"  as  they  should  be  —  his  plaything 
for  the  moment,  to  laugh  or  cry  as  he  bids 
them.  He  must  conquer  them  to  live  —  else 
he  is  eaten.  It  is  the  tamer  in  a  cage  with  a 
lion. 

As  it  is  probable  that  Bacon  visited  Venice 
and  certainly  Shakespeare  did  not,  it  is  easy 
to  surmise  that  William  gleaned  from  him 
any  necessary  knowledge  regarding  detail 
of  "locale,"  and  over  a  drink  in  an  inn  have 
Bacon  correct  the  startling  error  of  calling 
Bleecker  Street,  Houston.  Further,  it  is 
probable  that  as  Dr.  Brandes  points  out 
Shakespeare  cribbed  bodily  the  plot  of  the 
"Merchant"  as  a  good  artist  takes  what  he 
needs  —  just  as  he  did  the  plot  of  "Hamlet" 
from  Saxo  Grammaticus.  His  "treatment," 
not  his  plot,  or  his  poetry,  made  his  success 
theatrically.  Anyone  might  have  thought  of 
Ibsen's  plot  of  the  "Master  Builder,"  but  who 
could  have  given  it  that  treatment? 

An  amusing  instance  of  theatre  versus 
literature,  or  at  least  an  attempt  at  litera 
ture  occurred  when  Sir  Herbert  Tree  invited 
a  dozen  men  to  hear  a  play  that  Zangwill 
wrote  called  "The  War  God."  Zangwill 

C793 


evidently  conscious  at  last,  of  a  fact  which 
critics  had  been  trying  to  point  out  to  him 
for  years,  namely,  that  he  had  never  written 
a  play  in  prose,  this  time  attempted  one  in 
verse.  In  his  anxiety  to  write  verse,  he  took 
the  unfortunate  drama,  throttled  it  and  threw 
it  into  the  street.  The  different  men  present 
when  asked  their  opinion  upon  the  play  said 
variously  "I  like  it."  "It  interested  me 
immensely."  "I  thought  it  most  engrossing." 
"I  was  most  favorably  impressed,"  etc.,  etc. 
Lawrence  Irving  suggested  that  it  might 
have  been  better  if  written  in  prose.  When 
our  opinion  was  asked,  the  sense  of  polite 
ness,  compelling  us  to  live  up  to  the  tradi 
tion,  that  we  are  cowboys  over  here,  made 
us  bluntly  declare  that  it  was  not  a  play  at 
all,  pointing  out  that  the  man,  in  his  desire 
to  show  that  he  could  write  verse,  which, 
incidentally,  "The  Duchess"  would  have 
been  ashamed  of,  had  forgotten  the  drama, 
and,  as  an  illustration,  reminded  the  gentle 
men  present  that  Sir  Herbert  Tree  had  a 
play  on  in  his  theatre  then  by  Mr.  Shake 
speare,  namely,  "Henry  VIII,"  and,  in  that, 
the  author  had  never  presumed  to  suppress 
drama  for  anything  he  had  to  say,  however 
poetic.  The  curtain  is  not  up  two  minutes 
in  "Henry  VIII"  when  we  have  the  arrest 


of  Buckingham,  and  although  Mr.  ZangwhTs 
play  was  a  struggle  between  the  God  of  War 
and  the  God  of  Peace,  there  was  no  conflict 
of  any  sort,  either  physical  or  mental.  "  Henry 
VIII"  ran  360  nights  and  ZangwnTs  play  ran 
for  two  performances!  Good  poetry  didn't 
make  William  here,  any  more  than  bad 
poetry  ruined  Israel.  One  observed  the 
"theatre,"  the  other  ignored  it.  One  could 
go  on  giving  countless  instances,  but,  after  all, 
it  is  useless  for  those  with  a  petty  fogging 
pedantic  attitude  toward  either  the  stage  or 
literature  would  not  understand. 

So,  may  we  have  done  with  literary  speeches 
or  authors'  opinions,  at  the  expense  of  the 
theatre  —  they  are  charging  themselves  a 
heavy  price  —  the  short  life  of  their  work. 

Shaw  constantly  interrupts  the  direct  ac 
tion  of  his  plays,  more  especially  his  latter 
work,  to  give  his  opinions  —  amateur  so 
ciology  worthy  of  an  idle  afternoon  in  Hyde 
Park  —  whilst  Strindberg's  respect  for  the 
"theatre"  is  shown  not  only  by  an  abso 
lutely  "non-literary"  treatment  in  "The 
Father,"  but,  further,  he  never  discusses  his 
subject  in  the  plot;  therefore,  he  never  says 
a  word  against  the  unconscious  tyranny  of 
women,  but  shows  it. 

Shakespeare  after  all   made  his  own  Ian- 


guage.  He  did  not  need  schools  to  give  him 
that,  and  any  knowledge  of  medicine  or  law 
which  his  plays  betray,  books  of  reference 
could  have  given  to  a  puppet.  As  Frank 
Harris  points  out:  "Shakespeare  took  a  low 
Dutch  dialect,  rescued  it  from  oblivion  and 
enriched  it  some  seven  or  eight  hundred 
words:"  and  if  a  digression  may  be  permitted, 
we  would  like  to  add  that  it  is  a  poet's  busi 
ness  to  dally  with  a  language  in  the  sense  of 
attempting  to  correct  it:  that  it  is  the  height 
of  presumptuous  ignorance  for  a  successful 
ironmaster  or  an  adventurous  politician  to 
dare  to  correct  the  spelling  of  it.  We  are 
treated  by  these  gentlemen,  who  should  be 
knitting  in  the  marketplace,  to  the  benign 
advice  that  we  shall  spell  the  glorious  word 
"night"  n-i-t-e,  thus  robbing  the  word  of 
its  splendid  dignity,  sullying  its  whole  sig 
nificance,  and  further  ridiculing  its  silent 
mystery. 

Therefore,  in  conclusion  may  we  d^re  to 
hope  that  the  pedantry  which  denies  "crea 
tive  genius"  is  answered.  Moral:  a  college 
professor  after  all  has  one  thing  in  common 
with  a  genius  —  he  is  born  not  made. 

A   bad  liver  sometimes   produces   a   great 


BETWEEN  OURSELVES 

I  DARE  say  it  came  from  looking  into  the 
fire  so  long.  Hickory  logs  properly  used  are 
seductive  things,  and  as  the  sea  will  produce 
strange  things  if  gazed  upon  long  enough,  I 
presume  we  must  not  be  surprised  when  a 
wood  fire  turns  conjurer.  At  any  rate,  with 
out  further  preamble  —  there,  as  I  live, 
before  me,  rolled  out  from  the  ashes  a  human 
heart,  throbbing  for  all  the  world  as  though 
it  were  feebly  gasping  for  air.  I  blinked  in 
a  bewildered  way,  thinking,  "Now  you  are 
indeed  mad,"  yet  hoping  it  would  only  prove 
to  be  the  phantom  result  of  after-dining 
napping  —  yet  no  —  I  was  awake  right  enough 
—  but  I  had  no  time  for  further  amazement, 
for  lo !  it  began  to  speak  —  and  amazement 
changed  to  a  feeling  of  fascinated  horror. 

"You  look  very  comfortable  sitting  there." 
(A  deep  hole  in  its  side  seemed  to  give  it 
utterance  —  and,  looking  closer,  I  found  it 
covered  with  many,  many  tiny  holes  like  pin 
pricks  —  oh !  so  many  —  and  they  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  little  wounds.)  It  con- 


tinued,  "If  a  casual  acquaintance  —  or  even 
a  friend  —  entered  this  room  now,  they  would 
think  you  were  happy  and  at  peace  with  all 
the  world"  -Umph!  If  I  could  only  laugh. 
(It  really  seemed  to  stretch  itself  wearily  in 
the  ashes.)  "I  suppose  you're  surprised  that 
I've  come  to  have  a  talk  with  you — well, 
you  needn't  be,  and,  for  goodness  sake,  don't 
look  so  idiotically  amazed.  Goodness  knows 
you've  taken  me  out  of  my  peaceful  home 
often  enough,  and  offered  me  freely  in  the 
market  place."  (This  with  a  marked  note  of 
irritation.)  "May  I  not  leave  it  now  for  a 
sensible  reason  —  for  I  certainly  hope  that 
after  we've  finished  this  chat  —  at  least  after 
I've  finished  talking  and  you've  listened  in 
tently  enough  —  I  may  go  back  in  peace  to 
your  breast  and  assume  my  proper,  normal, 
and  sane  —  mark  you,  I  said  sane,  functions." 
My  attitude  became  befittingly  meek.  It 
continued  —  with  a  nasty  note  of  derision 
creeping  into  its  tone  -  "Of  course,  I  never 
could  understand  why  you  felt  it  necessary, 
upon  all  occasions,  including  holidays,  to 
drag  me  forth  into  the  blinding  sun,  and 
never,  by  any  chance,  grant  me  the  courtesy 
of  'by  your  leave,'  or  'if  you  don't  mind/ 
or  even  'to  oblige  me,'  but  no  —  your  daz 
zling  ego  put  the  reins  into  your  own  hands 


for,  of  course,  you,  of  all  people,  must  do 
everything  from  the  head.  The  head  indeed! 
(The  scorn  here  sent  sparks  up  the  chimney.) 
Then,  sneeringly,  "O,  you  think  the  head 
manages  so  well  —  you  fool !  —  women  have 
none,  yet  observe  how  well  they  manage  — 
and  as  for  your  head,  dear  me,  you  never 
apply  it  at  all  —  dreaming  isn't  using  it,  my 
boy.  You  spend  your  time  flattering  yourself 
because  you  don't  sneer.  Your  inaction 
brings  defeat,  and  then,  with  lordly  imperti 
nence  and  crass  ignorance,  you  cast  the  blame 
at  my  door,  whereas,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in 
all  important  things,  you  consult  neither  your 
head  nor  myself  —  in  fact  —  looking  at  you 
again  (this  in  a  loathsome,  critical  tone)  I 
rather  suspect  that  your  chief  adviser  and 
boon  companion  is  your  liver" — A  shocked 
expression  here  seemed  to  make  no  impression 
whatever,  for  the  scathing  tone  only  deep 
ened.  "Pray,  don't  think  for  a  moment  that 
because  the  liver  and  myself  are  neighbors 
that  we  are  friends.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we 
have  not  even  a  speaking  acquaintance  —  I 
help  it  of  course  as  I  do  the  rest  of  your  body 
—  but  that's  only  my  duty.  However,  that's 
a  digression.  To  resume  —  what  I  want  to 
talk  about,  or  really,  to  complain  of,  is  your 
treatment  of  me. 


"Time  and  time  again,  as  long  as  I  can 
remember,  I  have  implored  you  to  let  me 
rest  in  peace.  I  found  great  pleasure  in  at 
tending  to  my  duties,  and  asked  for  nothing 
-  except  a  little  moderate  exercise  —  and 
that  only  to  enable  me  to  take  better  care  of 
you,  but  no  —  I  must  be  dragged  out  to 
meet  this  one,  and  that,  —  at  one  time  it's 
what  you  call  a  'pal/  Oh!"  (with  a  terrible 
groan).  "How  full  your  youth  was  of  those! 
Why  didn't  you  use  them  all  just  for  com 
panionship?  That's  all  they  did  with  you. 
Why  bring  me  into  it  ?  Every  time  you  took 
me  out  and  carelessly  handed  me  over  to 
one  of  those,  I  was  dropped  just  as  carelessly 
on  the  floor,  and  sometimes  even  on  the 
street,  although  I'll  admit  that  it  was  in  your 
adventure  with  the  opposite  sex  that  I  in 
variably  found  myself  on  the  pavement,  — 
generally  in  the  gutter,  —  at  the  mercy  of 
taxis,  cabs,  and  drays,  —  my  only  friend  a 
prowling  dog;  somehow  they  always  seemed 
to  understand,  and,  after  a  sniff  or  two,  they 
would  help  me  find  the  way  home.  The  only 
time  you've  ever  given  me  human  treatment 
was  when  you  were  ill  —  then,  sometimes 
we'd  have  a  real  chat.  But,  when  you  were 
well,  and  could  go  out  into  the  crowd,  then 
the  fatiguing  grind  began  all  over  again. 
C86H 


How  I  loved  your  chance  acquaintances,  and 
even  your  enemies!  Whilst  you  thought  of 
them  I  got  a  real  rest,  —  but  your  friends  — 
really,  although  I  know  you  are  very  stupid 
—  even  you  must  laugh  now  when  you  look 
back;  there  were  one  or  two  real  ones.  How 
gladly  I'd  have  gone  to  them.  But,  of  course, 
being  a  stupid  ass,  you  took  from  them  and 
gave  nothing  in  return."  (Here  I  shifted 
uneasily  and  attempted  an  expostulation,  but 
a  sort  of  dignity  the  thing  took  on,  stopped 
me.)  "Why  won't  you  ever  learn  that  men 
use  each  other,  and  that  the  one  who  cares 
the  most  always  gets  the  worst  of  it?  It's 
amusing  to  see  the  unconscious  bullying  that 
goes  on  amongst  you.  It's  really  strange, 
but  your  friendships  are  not  a  bit  different 
from  your  love  affairs.  You  meet  a  man. 
The  new  personality  strikes  —  each  bored 
with  his  list  of  friends  —  and  you  go  through 
each  other  rapidly.  Of  course,  there's  a 
moment  —  the  confessional  stage  —  when  you 
both  think  that  this  time  it's  for  life.  I  know 
you  do,  poor  fool,  and  then  very  gradually 
you  become  bored  again.  The  stories  and 
adventures  are  repeated,  a  trifle  stale  now. 
You  see  faults  in  each  other,  and  then  —  I 
breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  as  I  find  myself  back 
at  home  in  my  quiet,  cosy  nest.  But,  alas! 
C873 


I  know  (this  in  a  very  mournful  tone)  that 
you  won't  allow  me  to  rest  for  very  long. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  resent  the  ' Pals' 
more  than  I  do  the  love  affairs,  for  the  men 
can  hurt  too.  But,  after  all,  there's  no  dif 
ference,  as  I've  told  you;  they  are  just  like 
love  affairs,  though,  of  course,  really  the 
women  hurt  the  most,  though  what  I'm  so 
very  indignant  about  is  that  I  never  got  any 
real  enjoyment  out  of  it. 

"Once  or  twice  you've  really  fooled  even 
me.  Once,  particularly,  and  it's  difficult  to 
refrain  from  profanity  when  I  look  at  you 
and  think  what  I  went  through  then.  Don't 
you  realize  that  I  have  serious  work  to  do  in 
your  body?  And  don't  you  realize  that  it's 
quite  impossible  to  do  it  when  you  bounce 
me  around  like  a  rubber  ball?  Oh  my!  Oh 
my!  What  I  went  through  in  that  particular 
case  —  taken  out  —  laid  at  her  feet  —  only 
to  be  trampled  on.  Then,  sometimes  she'd 
look  down  at  me  and  a  sense  of  pity  would 
come  over  her,  I  suppose.  At  any  rate  she'd 
warm  me  in  her  soft  hands  and  sometimes, 
only  sometimes,  she'd  put  me  in  her  breast, 
and  I  admit  that  was  quite  wonderful.  But, 
of  course,  I  only  got  in  there  when  you  cared 
least.  Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
you  didn't  keep  the  ball  whilst  it  was  in  your 
C88H 


hands,  I  can't  understand.  You  had  her 
heart  —  wasn't  that  good  enough  for  you  ? 
Her  breast  was  wonderful,  I  admit.  I  was 
quite  comfortable  —  but  no !  instead  of  play 
ing  your  hand  like  a  man,  you  must  flounder 
around  at  her  feet;  let  her  see  that  she  had 
you,  and  then,  of  course,  I  was  thrown  out 
again  —  and  generally  the  weather  was  cold. 
Don't  you  realize  that  woman  isn't  old 
enough  yet  to  be  given  power?  No.  Of 
course  you  must  tell  her  that  she's  wonderful 
and  that  you're  a  weak  fool.  Then  she,  like 
an  ass,  believes  that,  and  thinks  you  smaller 
than  any  man  she  knows.  Or  worse  still, 
you  have  her  kick  me  out  over  some  stupid 
quarrel.  She  talks  rot  and  is  unreasonable, 
and  you,  like  the  perfect  fool  you  are,  must 
needs  try  to  reason  with  her.  You  talk  logic 
instead  of  listening  quietly  —  logic  to  a 
woman ! !  —  and  worse,  a  woman  in  love  with 
you.  Several  times  I've  started  to  talk  with 
your  brain  on  this  particular  case,  but  ye 
gods!  it  was  worse  than  your  liver,  —  and 
all  the  time  I'm  bounced  back  and  forth  be 
tween  the  two  of  you  quite  as  though  I  were 
made  of  clay  —  my  work  all  going  to  ruin,  and 
complaints  pouring  in  all  day  from  the  rest 
of  your  body,  just  as  though  /  were  the  loafer. 
"And  the  strange  places  I'd  find  myself  — 


now  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain  —  again,  on 
the  floor  of  a  motor  car,  stepped  on,  wedged 
in  the  door,  or  rolled  into  the  gutter.  When 
you  two  quarreled  it  was  all  one  to  you  both. 
I  could  take  care  of  myself  as  far  as  you  were 
concerned.  Upon  my  word,  it's  disgraceful. 
How  you  ever  expect  me  to  feel,  to  be  able 
to  give  anything  when  I  really  care  —  I  don't 
know,  it's  beyond  me.  For,  of  course,  you 
know  the  day  will  come  when  I  will  care. 
I  wonder  if  you  know  just  the  kind  of  emo 
tion  it  will  be?  I  doubt  it  —  though  I'll 
tell  you  this  much  about  it.  For  the  first 
time,  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  your  brain, 
and  myself,  will  be  really  friends,  and  in  the 
meanwhile,  I  wish  you'd  stop  staring  moodily 
at  me,  and  instead,  have  just  a  little  politeness. 
Pick  me  up  now,  out  of  the  ashes,  and  for 
once  handle  me  a  little  tenderly,  and  gently 
place  me  back  where  I  belong,  and  get  the 
idea  out  of  your  head  that  it's  dark  and  lonely 
in  there.  It  isn't.  On  the  contrary,  it's 
rather  warm  and  cosy  —  not  half  a  bad  sort 
of  breast,  if  you'd  give  it  half  a  chance,  and 
do  remember,  that  I'm  simply  aching  for  a 
goody  long  rest.  And  please  look  long  and 
well  before  you  take  me  out  again  for  what 
you  call  a  'pal'  and,  as  for  a  woman, - 
well,  you'll  know  when  I  want  to  come  out 


for  'her/  for  I'll  thump  and  thump  as 
though  to  break  your  side  —  even  you  will 
understand  —  and  I'll  send  you  back  instead 
such  a  gentle,  sweet,  little  heart  that  you'll 
tremble  every  day  in  wonderment  of  your 
luck,  and  gaze  with  eyes  of  awe  upon  a  world 
that  can  bring  you  so  much  happiness." 


The  truth  is  very  strange  —  the  only  way 

to  depend  upon  not  finding  it  is  to 

consort  with  mediocrity. 


ARTISTIC  REASONING* 
BY  BERNARD  SHAW  ? 

It  is  so  annoying  that  just  as  I  had  filled 
my  knapsack  with  ink  and  opinions  to  hurry 
to  the  front  and  persuade  our  soldiers  to  shoot 
their  officers  in  the  back  and  go  home,  that 
I  must  turn  my  attention  to  this  man  Daly 
again.  Ever  since  I  first  heard  of  him  he 
has  been  a  thorn  in  my  side. 

Some  eleven  or  twelve  years  ago,  when 
anyone  could  do  my  plays  without  the  slight 
est  difficulty,  certainly  without  troubling  to 
get  my  consent,  this  man  conceived  the  idea 
of  producing  "Candida."  My  books  were 
quietly  reposing  in  the  dust  on  Brentano's 
shelves,  and  my  opinions  then  hit  no  one 
except  the  casual  passerby  in  Hyde  Park. 

This  production  of  "Candida"  was  pro 
duced  in  the  lowest  possible  manner.  Bored 
with  bad  parts  and  bad  plays,  this  insane 
man  staged  my  masterpiece  with  a  capital 

*  This  was  written  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Daly's  revival  of  the 
Shaw  plays  which  occasioned  Mr.  Shaw's  refusal  to  allow  Mr.  Daly 
to  continue  to  act  in  them. 


of  $350.00  and  although  I  tried  to  discourage 
him  by  charging  him  ten  per  cent  of  the  gross 
receipts  as  a  royalty  (being  a  humanitarian 
and  an  up-lifter  of  the  theatre  I  believe  in 
charging  a  higher  royalty  than  any  other 
author)  nevertheless,  he  blundered  on  and 
pawned  his  insurance  papers,  and  borrowed 
money  from  his  friends  where'er  he  could 
to  continue  the  run  of  the  play.  Had  he  a 
grain  of  sense  he  would  have  abandoned  it 
and  not  grubbed  his  way  through  the  dirt. 

This  production  proved  successful,  how 
ever,  despite  his  low  methods,  and  he  then 
followed  it  with  "A  Man  of  Destiny,"  "How 
He  Lied  to  Her  Husband,"  and  "You  Never 
Can  Tell."  By  this  time  we  realized  in 
London  that  it  was  the  rain  that  caused  us  to 
fail  when  we  had  attempted  the  plays  before, 
and  so  we  tried  again,  and  this  time  we  were 
more  or  less  successful.  I  even  risked  some 
ha'pence  myself,  although  naturally,  I  did 
not  charge  our  Court  Theatre  venture  the 
ten  per  cent  royalty. 

Daly  followed  "You  Never  Can  Tell" 
with  John  Bull's  "Other  Island,"  and  failed. 
Imagine  that  now!  Failed  with  one  of  my 
plays,  despite  the  fact  that  the  play  dealt 
with  Catholicism,  Protestantism  and  the  land 
question,  subjects  upon  which  the  New  York 

C933 


public  mind  seethes  with  interest.  How  could 
I  forgive  him  that  failure?  And  yet  I  tried. 
After  all,  his  one  failure  ruined  him  while  I 
still  had  my  ten  per  cent  of  the  gross. 

He  then  produced  "Mrs.  Warren's  Pro 
fession",  and  he  would  have  succeeded  with 
that  had  he  not  courted  failure  by  dubbing 
my  friend  Antony  Comstock,  a  "genial  come 
dian."  Later  he  took  to  the  road  with  "You 
Never  Can  Tell",  and  during  his  road  tour, 
for  a  time,  I  ceased  to  demand  my  ten  per 
cent,  and  if  any  further  proof  is  necessary 
that  this  man  Daly  is  mad,  instead  of  keep 
ing  that  ten  per  cent  for  himself,  he  put  it  to 
the  credit  of  the  books  so  that  his  manager, 
a  kind  hearted  Brooklyn  politician,  benefited. 

Then  he  produced  "Arms  and  the  Man," 
and  again  he  succeeded,  although  continually 
annoying  me  by  never  following  my  advice. 

Also,  he  persuaded  Frederick  Whitney  to 
stage  "Arms  and  the  Man"  in  London.  I 
gave  my  consent  to  the  performance  upon 
condition  that  I  stage  the  play.  At  the  sec 
ond  rehearsal,  Sir  Charles  Wyndham,  who, 
by  the  way,  knows  nothing  about  the  theatre, 
assured  Daly  that  if  the  play  were  given  as  I 
was  rehearsing  it,  the  London  critics  would 
declare  that  it  was  a  jolly  good  thing  that  it 
had  been  turned  into  a  musical  comedy.  The 

1:94:1 


performance  was  highly  praised  by  the  London 
critics,  although  Daly's  performance  was  too 
absurd.  The  London  Times,  a  ridiculously 
conservative  sheet,  declared  that  Daly  was 
the  best  "Bluntschli"  London  had  seen,  de 
spite  the  fact  that  three  Englishmen  had 
played  the  part  previously,  and  James  Doug 
las,  in  a  special  article,  was  silly  enough  to 
say  that  he  acted  as  Melba  sings  and  as 
Pavlowa  dances.  How  could  I  be  expected 
to  stand  that?  His  plan  was  also  to  revive 
"Candida"  and  "You  Never  Can  Tell"  in 
London,  but  that  did  not  suit  me,  although  I 
had  promised  him  that  he  could  do  so.  Sir 
J.  M.  Barrie  and  myself  were  risking  our 
pennies  at  the  Little  Theatre  and  had  just 
opened  with  "Fanny's  First  Play."  We 
could  not  have  a  man  as  irresponsible  as 
Daly  playing  against  us  in  London,  so  I 
refused  my  consent  to  his  revival  of  "Can 
dida,"  upon  the  plea  of  his  age.  I  pointed  out 
that  it  would  be  ridiculous  for  him  to  attempt 
to  look  so  young,  whereupon  he  answered 
that  I  was  only  insulting  his  make-up  box. 
Finally  he  wore  me  out  until  I  had  to  tell 
him  the  truth,  which  I  did  over  the  telephone. 
I  told  him  that  we  were  uncertain  of  the 
future  of  "Fanny's  First  Play"  and  had  to 
hold  "Candida"  in  reserve  for  the  Little 

C9S3 


Theatre  and  assured  him  that  we  had  more 
sagacity  than  Sir  Henry  Irving.  Irving  was 
stupid  enough  to  treat  the  stage  as  an  art 
and  invited  Edwin  Booth  to  alternate  roles 
with  him.  We  could  not  afford  such  non 
sense.  I  might  have  consented  to  Daly  tour 
ing  in  the  provinces,  but  when  he  had  the 
impertinence  to  change  a  piece  of  business  in 
the  last  act  of  "Arms  and  the  Man"  between 
"Raiena"  and  "Sergius,"  then  I  put  my 
foot  down.  I  wrote  him  that  he  would  never 
do  a  play  of  mine  again,  and  certainly  I  intend 
to  keep  my  word.  What  do  I  care  if  my  con 
tracts  are  illegal?  Why  should  I  have  equity 
in  them?  That  would  be  stupid.  I'm  a 
sensible  man,  therefore  I  make  all  my  con 
tracts  to  give  Shaw  all  the  best  of  it  and  to 
give  the  other  party  as  little  as  possible. 

In  London  we  do  not  permit  the  actor- 
manager  to  have  anything  to  say  in  his 
theatre  whatsoever.  His  only  liberty  is  to 
pay  the  actors'  salaries  and  the  authors'  fees. 
If  we  allowed  him  freedom  he  might  make  a 
success,  whereas  we  manage  to  fail  frequently. 
This  annoying  man,  Daly,  proved  to  me  con 
clusively  that  the  play  "The  Thunder  Bolt" 
would  have  been  a  success  if  handled  by  a 
genuine  producer,  and  it's  very  annoying  to 
admit  that  he  was  right. 
C963 


Now  some  producing  firm  has  sprung  up 
in  New  York  with  the  idea  of  reviving  three 
of  my  plays  in  which  Daly  has  made  a  success, 
and  they  have  engaged  him  to  play  in  the'se 
revivals,  but  I  shall  stop  them  at  any  cost. 
Of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  stop  them. 
My  agent  in  New  York  has  given  them  a 
contract,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  I  shall 
stop  them  anyhow.  I  have  cabled  my  lawyer 
to  spare  no  expense  to  do  so.  I  cannot  have 
Daly  commencing  a  season  just  as  I  have 
Barker  safely  launched  at  Wallack's  Theatre. 
I  was  immediately  apprised  by  cable  of  this 
man's  intention.  Of  course,  some  people 
may  be  low  minded  enough  to  suspect  that 
it  was  Barker  who  cabled  me,  but  that  idea 
must  be  dismissed  at  once.  How  could 
Barker  afford  to  try  and  stop  Daly  ?  Barker's 
season,  after  all,  is  backed  by  American 
capital,  therefore,  how  could  he  afford  to 
have  this  done?  What  would  the  American 
gentleman  interested  for  artistic  reasons  in 
his  venture  think  of  him  then?  No!  No! 
He  is  too  high-minded,  being  even  as  I,  a 
humanitarian.  One  must  not  be  too  severe 
regarding  the  incident  of  his  trying  to  sell 
Daly  the  American  rights  to  Ibsen's  "Master 
Builder."  Daly  was  young,  a  cow-boy  in 
art,  and  required  a  lesson. 


This  mad  man,  Daly,  has  just  cabled  me 
that  he  is  going  to  try  next  year  to  land  at 
Moscow,  Berlin,  Paris  or  London,  and  see 
whether  a  group  of  millionaires  will  hand 
him  15,000  pounds  to  teach  the  local  artistic 
idea  how  to  shoot  instead  of  looking  for 
cigars  in  his  baggage.  Another  reason,  if  it 
is  necessary  to  quote  further,  why  I  do  not 
want  this  season  to  go  on  is  that  I  fear  that 
it  may  be  backed  by  money  made  in  that  low 
born  trade,  the  moving  picture  business.  Of 
course  I  have  no  proof  of  this,  but  I  must 
admit  that  if  the  man  had  some  millionaires 
back  of  him  or  had  a  rich  wife  I  might  recon 
sider  my  decision. 

More  annoyance.  Another  cable  from  this 
troublesome  man  bidding  me  fill  my  artistic 
soul  with  the  inspiration  of  justice  and  truth 
instead  of  bothering  myself  with  notoriety 
and  petty  meannesses,  and  this  simply  be 
cause  I  wrote  him  once  that  genius  without 
moral  conduct  was  a  filthy  cloak.  He  asks 
me  to  write  a  play  for  the  real  theatre  and 
bids  me  leave  politics  to  those  who  under 
stand  it,  and,  crowning  insult  of  all,  suggests 
that  I  resign  the  front  page  of  the  daily 
papers  to  the  Kaiser. 

April  /p/5. 

C983 


MORALITY 

That  which  tends  to  degrade,  impede  or  dis 
courage  that  which  is  best  in  one  is  immoral. 
That  which  tends  to  encourage,  enlighten 
and  assist  that  which  is  best  in  one  —  is 
moral.    Hence,  one  may  get  one's  in 
spiration  from  a  wanton  or  one's 
death  sentence  from  a  saint. 


C993 


GOSSIP 

A    FABLE 

THE  Lion  was  always  deeply  grieved  when 
he  thought  of  his  friend,  the  Bat,  because  he 
never  saw  the  light.  "It  is  good  to  look  at 
the  sun/'  said  he,  as  he  rolled  on  his  back 
and  blinked,  "even  though  it  sometimes 
hurts  your  eyes." 

Then  he  scratched  his  tawny  belly  and 
thought  for  a  while.  After  thinking  a  very 
long  time,  he  discovered  that  he  was  hungry. 
Now,  he  would  have  liked  a  nice  fat  deer, 
but  then,  he  was  comfortable  where  he  was 
-  the  necessity  bored  him. 

And  so  he  said,  "Skat!" 

Now  the  Squirrel  thought  he  said  "cat" 
and  ran  to  warn  her.  Then  they  both  climbed 
a  nice,  comfy,  protecting  tree.  The  Squirrel 
was  angry,  for  in  climbing  the  tree  he  dropped 
an  armful  of  nuts.  "It  is  a  pity,"  he  said, 
"for  I  like  nuts,"  and  was  always  out  hunt 
ing  them. 

The  Cat  looked  down  from  the  high,  pro- 


tecting  branch  and  thought  for  a  long  while 
what  it  could  say  to  the  Lion.  Then  her 
face  brightened  —  she  had  thought  of  some 
thing  at  last. 

"I  have  beautiful  whiskers,  too,  just  as 
beautiful  as  yours/'  said  she,  but  the  Lion 
only  looked  up  very  bored  and  said,  "What 
does  it  matter  ?"  and  went  on  licking  his  paw, 
because  he  just  then  remembered  that  it  was 
bruised. 


A  LETTER  WRITTEN  TO  A  NEW  YORK 
PLAYWRIGHT 

HOTEL  MATIGNON, 
AVENUE  MATIGNON, 
Paris,  VIII. 

Dec.  19,  1919. 

SOME  three  weeks  ago  Mr.  George  Mac- 
Lellan  sent  me  the  following  wire  from  London: 

'  Would  you  be  at  liberty  play  lead  ' 

— '  open  Haymarket  Theatre  February  first 
wire  Savoy.' 

I  answered  that  I  could  arrange  it  as  my 
present  contract  expires  about  December 

22d. 

Negotiations  followed  and  you  know  the 
rest.  You  refused  your  consent  to  my  en 
gagement.  Now  then  an  interesting  question 
arises:  If  a  man  writes  a  play,  undeniably 
he  has  the  right  to  use  his  judgment  and 
authority  in  the  selection  of  the  cast;  but 
when  he  steals  the  play  from  an  Austrian, 
withholds  the  author's  name  from  the  play 
bills,  and  the  said  author's  royalties  —  a 
condition  made  possible  only  because  of  the 

CI02] 


war  —  has  he  the  same  right  ?  When  a  man 
becomes  a  moral,  artistic  and  material  thief, 
has  he  the  right  to  prevent  an  actor  from  a 
possible  honest,  artistic  and  material  success? 
It  seems  strange  —  but  it  is  so  since  you 
decide  it,  my  Emperor. 

Why?  Because  I  pointed  out  to  you  where 
your  stage  direction  was  amateurish  when 

you  staged  ' 'and  yet  you  accepted 

mY  suggestions,  but  with  battle  instead  of 
gratitude:  also,  have  you  forgotten  the  bud 
ding  period  of  your  career  as  dramatist  ?  The 
hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  Raffles  —  cor 
recting  your  childish  efforts  and  patiently 
teaching  you  construction  are  as  a  string  of 
smiles  to  me,  with  your  present  contemptible 
action  reminding  me  of  your  small  soul. 

Why  people  continually  caress  a  scorpion 
when  they  want  a  kiss  is  beyond  me,  but  have 
it  your  own  way.  You  asked  for  it  and  so  I 
send  you  a  letter  of  truth.  You  might  have 
suspected  that  I  would  not  take  a  blow  lying 
down. 

Don't  sue  —  I  haven't  any  money,  and 
when  I  get  some,  I'll  take  care  that  my  cred 
itors  get  it  before  you.  But,  upon  my  return 
home,  you  may  advance,  Falstaff,  and  throw 
thy  ponderous  jellied  self  upon  my  mercy. 

1:1033 


December  28,  1916 
Mr.  ARNOLD  DALY, 

The  Fulton  Theatre, 
West  46th  Street, 

NEW  YORK  CITY. 
My  dear  Sir: 

With  my  wife  and  four  friends  I  saw  "The 
Master"  last  Tuesday  evening,  and  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  I  never  was  so  disgusted  in 
my  life.  What  is  the  purpose  of  it  all  ?  Is  it 
to  show  the  superiority  of  the  morals  of  the 
East  over  the  West?  Is  it  to  uphold  practis 
ing  medicine  or  surgery  without  a  state 
certificate?  Is  it  to  advocate  license  to  im 
morality?  What  is  it?  I  confess  I  don't 
know. 

I  read  the  other  day  of  a  business  house 
that  has  in  its  window  these  words:  "Your 
money  is  simply  on  deposit  here  until  you  are 
satisfied/'  It  would  be  a  good  motto  for  all 
theatres,  and  for  the  present  for  the  Fulton 
in  particular. 

The  only  bright  streak  in  an  otherwise 
dark  night  was  the  small  house,  together  with 
your  "between  the  acts"  speech  —  "Two 
meals  a  day  may  be  good  for  the  soul,  but 
it's  hard  on  the  body."  In  this  you  paid  a 
L  104] 


compliment  to  the  New  York  theatre-going 
public. 

Give  us  something  good  and  wholesome, 
or  else  label  your  play  in  such  a  way  that  the 
unsuspecting  public  will  know  what  it  is 
buying. 

Very  truly  yours, 
ROBERT  GORDON  MCGREGOR. 


December  3Oth,  1916. 

THE    ANSWER 

My  dear  Dr.  McGregor: 

Since  you  make  a  business  of  preaching 
the  Word  of  God,  it  is  quite  natural  that 
you  do  not  understand  it.  The  dusty  neces 
sity  of  scraping  in  trade  chokes  the  soul.  And 
since  culture,  and  gentleness  too,  are  a  part 
of  your  profession,  one  easily  understands 
how  greatly  —  judging  by  your  rudeness  — 
you  misunderstand  its  message. 

The  purposes  of  this  play,  as  you  under 
stand  it,  would  not  have  been  ascribed  to  it 
even  by  a  private  detective.  For  your  en 
lightenment,  therefore,  I  will  spare  a  moment 
to  tell  you  what  the  play  means. 

It  is  a  denial  of  the  Nietzschean  theory. 
It  is  a  plea  for  the  involuntary,  as  being  supe- 

C  105  3 


rior  to  the  voluntary.  If  the  State  guards  the 
individual  too  much,  it  loses  his  best  endeavor. 
Even  sloth  is  a  good  thing  —  it  gives  you 
something  to  get  out  of. 

Further,  the  play  shows  the  bitter  truism 
that  the  weak  destroy  the  strong,  for  they 
not  only  prey  upon  them  —  they  drag  them 
down. 

Come  and  sit  at  my  feet  some  night  and 
I  will  teach  you  wisdom. 


CI063 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
8  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


JUN 


JtlL  27  1940 


Dec23  X8D0 


MAY31  1961 


IN  STAC1 


— T 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


YC  45580 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


